


Ulysses

by SilenceoftheSolitude



Series: Ulysses [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bertie Pelham POV, Canon Compliant, Courtship, Episode Related, Episode: s05e09 A Moorland Holiday, Episode: s06e03, Episode: s06e04, Episode: s06e05, Episode: s06e06, Episode: s06e07, Episode: s06e09 Christmas Special, Espisode: s06e08, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings of Inadequacy, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Mentions of Homosexuality, Mother-Son Relationship, Self-Exploration, letter exchanges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 85,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23154472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilenceoftheSolitude/pseuds/SilenceoftheSolitude
Summary: The truth of the matter was, Bertie knew of very few single women who would ever consider marrying him, and those he knew were altogether uninteresting, to his utter dismay. All in all, it seemed as though his mother would be his only company in life, until even she would succumb to old age, and Bertie would be left alone to care for no one but himself.
Relationships: Bertie Pelham & Peter Pelham, Edith Crawley/Bertie Pelham
Series: Ulysses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645690
Comments: 83
Kudos: 93





	1. There lies the port (part I)

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the main part of the story, which will follow events from the season 5 Christmas Special up to the end of the series.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey nor its characters (or its dialogues), I'm only borrowing them for the purpose of telling this story. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Some real life people are mentioned throughout the story: their characters are in no way reflective of the actual people and do not pretend to be; they are just names on screen whose purpose is to make the story a little more historically accurate. Hopefully no one will be offended.
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta, BoxyP, who really did a splendid job on this.
> 
> I'd also like to add that none of the titles used for any chapter of this story (or the name of the story itself) is my own invention. I'd let you figure out whose they are...

_16 September, 1924_

Bertie was sitting at his office table, opening the correspondence of his Cousin, when he found a quite promising letter from Lord Daniel Sinderby, requesting to rent Brancaster for part of the Grouse season. They had had a couple of earlier bookings, and Bertie had quite happily stated that his policy of not putting the price out immediately, but rather waiting to deal with monetary concerns at more advanced stages of the negotiations, had born the desired fruits. He knew enough of Lord Sinderby to know he had more fortune than sense, especially when it came to proving his suitability for the young title he held. If Bertie played this right, he could cover the costs of repairs to the roofing in the less frequented areas of the castle. Of course, that would require Peter to actually get involved with the negotiations. Bertie decided to finish the rest of his correspondence first. He would run to Brancaster after that and call Peter in London to make sure his cousin knew what to do (which reminded Bertie, he needed to get himself a telephone for the cottage). Bertie could use Peter’s stamp rather than his signature to send an early reply by mail, but then it would be better for Peter to set up a meeting in person with the man.

Lord Sinderby had made very specific and advanced requests in his letter, and Bertie knew that dealings would get underway sooner than they had with any other offers he had received thus far. He briefly informed his mother of his plans for the day, suggesting she not wait for him to have lunch or tea, but assuring her that he would do his utmost to be home for dinner.

Mrs Pelham had seemed pleased with her son’s new job, and the way he was conducting himself lately, her only true complaint being at the lack of attention Bertie was placing towards building his own family. She had taken to reminding him that however much the estate was important, it should not be his entire life, for, unlike his cousin, Bertie was not an aristocrat who could marry however late in life he wished to; if he wanted a family, he should think of settling down soon. Ironically enough, Bertie had spent his adult life worrying over Cousin Peter’s marriage and never given a thought to his own feelings on the matter. He wanted children, that much he knew, but he’d rather die alone than settle into a marriage devoid of love. On this, he had his mother’s agreement.

Bertie’s problem with women was two-fold. For one, he was a land agent, tied to the fortunes of Brancaster Castle quite intimately, but not anywhere near the standards of people who frequented the place or associated with his cousin. However much true that was, Bertie’s only female acquaintances were of aristocratic birth, thus wholly uninterested in him. He had a bite at the pub, on occasion, and sure enough there were women there, not all of them taken, but his lunches were mostly hurried affairs on his way to a farm. Most of his social gatherings that had nothing to do with Cousin Peter were with his best friend, Harry Armstrong, a happily married man and father of four who more often than not invited him to his house. The truth of the matter was, Bertie knew of very few single women who would ever consider marrying him, and those he knew were altogether uninteresting, to his utter dismay. All in all, it seemed as though his mother would be his only company in life, until even she would succumb to old age, and Bertie would be left alone to care for no one but himself.

Not a word about his ghastly prospects was spoken to Peter on the phone when the two eventually connected over the line. Peter consented to see Lord Sinderby in person, as long as Bertie acquiesced to come down to London and as long as the meeting took place in the following week, before his scheduled departure for Tangiers. Bertie agreed and set up the meeting as quickly as he could, though he did manage to discuss the most peculiar request Lord Sinderby had advanced quite promptly with Cousin Peter.

“He wants to bring his own butler at Brancaster.”

“ _That’s new,_ ” Peter responded with some consternation in his voice. “ _Do we know why?_ ”

“Not really. He simply said he much prefers to give orders to his own butler than an unknown one.”

“ _A bit rude, that._ ”

“Quite, but I was thinking that we could take the opportunity to send Charlton to the London house, to oversee the new changes in the staff there. It’s something we have had in the works for some time now but never really tackled. It would be a way not to ruffle his feathers too much, while assenting to Lord Sinderby’s request.”

“ _Very well, I shall send a note to Charlton, then. I trust you will speak to him personally, of course, but I would like the request to come from me._ ”

“That’s settled then. I do fear,” Bertie added as a last item of business, “that Lord Sinderby will want to bring his own cook as well, since they have very specific dietary requirements. I should not grant that particular request, however. We can more easily force him to buy his own items of sustenance, but not further disrupt your staff. We do not want to seem too desperate for money.”

“ _I shall not like to even imagine what Mrs Brennan would think up the next time I’m at Brancaster should I even consider allowing someone else in her domain,_ ” Peter agreed jokingly. “ _Let Lord Sinderby be happy of what we have to offer_.”

They said their goodbyes after that, and Bertie returned to his daily routine, content on having secured a most profitable business deal for his cousin. His afternoon was made up of checking the accounts and allocating the budget for the following months, adjusting it to match the new expected profits and expenses. The agricultural prospects of Northumberland were not as prosperous as those of other regions, making Bertie’s interest in more industrious endeavours quite necessary, though entirely tiring on his system. By the time he was finished that evening, dinner had been ready, and only his mother’s foresight at preparing something cold saved him from having to reheat his food. Cousin Peter had suggested Bertie should take a cook for their cottage, or even that he should make use of Mrs Brennan’s services whenever he felt like it, but Bertie and his mother were used to a simple life, and had the tendency to deal with all the daily requirements of maintaining a household on their own. Mother’s age would, eventually, force Bertie to hire some help for major cleaning endeavours, but he would take care of minor matters on his own, even if he would have to wake up half an hour earlier every day to keep the cottage up to his exacting standards.

For the time being, however, his mother managed well on her own, quite in spite of the fact that she looked like a grand lady might. “How was your day?” She asked once they were settled down at the table. Bertie proceeded to give a detailed account of his dealings, knowing that when his mother asked it wasn’t just to fill the silence. She didn’t mind business talk in the least, and often had bright ideas to contribute to the conversation; had she been born four decades later than she had, Bertie would have had no trouble seeing her becoming a businesswoman quite on her own strengths and merits. As it were, he was glad to have her on his side. Indeed, she gave him a couple of pointers on how best to approach Charlton with his plan of relieving him of his Brancaster duties for the duration of Lord Sinderby’s stay, and even went so far as promising some useful knowledge about the man and his family before Bertie had to head down to London in ten days’ time to deal with the man. If there was some information to be had about the man, his mother was sure to think it appropriate they were in possession of it before they might have saddled themselves with him at the Castle.

That evening, Bertie retired to bed thoroughly exhausted, but ready to embark on the following day with renewed vigour.

* * *

_26 September, 1924_

His conversation with Charlton the previous day had gone better than anticipated. In light of the fact that their next batch of guests would arrive at Brancaster the following week, Bertie could not help but be relieved for that.

He had walked in from the service entrance rather than the main one, knowing that with no visitors attended at Brancaster, Charlton was more likely to have placed a footman in his place minding the ground floor and have busied himself with upkeep business. He had found Matthew, the quiet but efficient first footman, out in the gardens just outside the servant’s entrance taking a break, and had been shown inside by him. He had been brought before Charlton and left there as if he were Cousin Peter rather than the agent – the respect afforded to him by all members of the household was far beyond that his own father had enjoyed, and Bertie knew he owed that to Peter, but he liked to think the men and women downstairs liked him on his own merits.

“Mr Pelham, how may I be of assistance?” Charlton had asked, not betraying any feeling about the news of his temporary relocation to London.

“I think we both know why I’m here,” Bertie had started, sat straight-backed in the chair on the other side of Charlton’s table.

“If you are referring to His Lordship’s notification about my special duties later this autumn, I assure you that all the explanation I have received is sufficient. I have a clear mind about what my duties ought to be, and I will endeavour to carry them out with the utmost efficiency.”

“If either myself or Lord Hexham ever doubted as much, you would not be Brancaster’s butler, Charlton,” Bertie had reassured him. “It is not to explain your duties that I am here. But rather to extend an apology, I suppose.” By the look of surprise on the butler’s face, Bertie had rather thought he had hit a mark, if not quite ensured victory. “I dare say you must be feeling cast out of Brancaster, and I do not blame you if you do. I know Lord Hexham has written to you, and hopefully he has taken care to ensure his full confidence in your capabilities in this role, but it would be remiss of me not to explain to you exactly why such measures have had to be taken.

“The truth is, Charlton, we need a considerable amount of money for upkeep and repairs, and Lord Sinderby appears to be quite eager to contribute to the cause, if concessions are made in his favour. I personally find the whole idea ludicrous and pompous, but neither one of us is allowed an opinion on the matter, and I dare say Lord Hexham is unlikely to voice one to Lord Sinderby himself, though he did with me.” Charlton had appeared relieved at that, and Bertie had given a silent thanks to his mother for pointing out the obvious matter of ruffled feathers when she had. “The matter in London is, of course, quite important to His Lordship, and thus the opportunity is not to be a waste, on that front. I still feel the need to apologise for not having talked the matter through with you before taking the decision; it was somewhat unkind, but Lord Hexham will be leaving England soon, and I felt it necessary to speed matters along. We value your role here at Brancaster a great deal, Charlton, I hope you know that.” Bertie had followed that by proposing Charlton took a vacation for as long as he wished once his job in London was done; after all, it was unlikely that it would take him a whole three weeks to deal with finding the right kind of help to place at Hexham House to minimise costs.

Charlton had been more than appeased and had urged Bertie to stay for lunch, something Bertie had consented to without great objection. He had dined in the servants’ hall more than once; he had done it repeatedly when on a quick errand, and though he knew it to be unusual for a man who was a class above a servant’s, he had never thought of himself in grand manners. If he cooked his own dinner, surely he could benefit from sharing one with the servants of Brancaster, to whom he felt a connection in light of their common duties as employees of Lord Hexham. Besides, sometimes it was a relief to sit at a table where people were honest and not afraid to be jolly, people who didn’t drink from three different glasses and didn’t think of food as something pretty that should decorate a table. He had had a pleasant conversation and then left to see to the final duties he had set for himself before he had been bound to take the train down to London the following day.

Hexham House in London was one property Bertie was not quite familiar with. He had made use of it, at his cousin’s insistence, on previous business visits to London, but only for a room to retire to in the evening. He had certainly not insisted on the presence of a valet or a footman to serve him dinner in any room. He had eaten his luncheons outside, and taken care to only have the simplest dinners in his room when he came back for the evening. He was by far less familiar with the staff in Hexham House than he was with the one at Brancaster, and had never had Peter there to be a buffer between himself and the help.

Peter, at any rate, welcomed him with a warm smile and all the grandeur he would reserve for the peers, sending a clear message to whomever cared to look. He had gifted Bertie with a restful evening, renouncing any company but Bertie’s itself, and talking about something other than the business Bertie was there for. They discussed _The Street Singer_ , the latest musical Peter had been to see, and – when it became obvious to Peter that musicals were outside Bertie’s scope of knowledge – Shaw’s _Saint Joan_. Bertie had not had such a worry-free evening in a long time, and could scarcely believe it when the butler intruded to ask if they wished something else before going to bed, alerting them to the very late hour. They denied the help and offered their apology for the long night they had unwittingly provided the staff with. Bertie hadn’t had such an interesting conversation in months, and was therefore not truly sorry for the matter.

The following morning, Lord Sinderby came to visit them with his son, Atticus, in tow. The older man was clipped and decidedly unpolite, setting both Bertie and Peter to vast unease. Bertie, who had a measure of the man, and was used to much sterner individuals, took over the conversation on his cousin’s side, taking care not to appear overstepping his boundaries. He was quick to remark that both Lord Sinderby and Mr Aldridge quickly wrote him off as nothing more than a charity case Cousin Peter had taken on, but he was dissuaded from disillusioning them on account of the fact that if they thought him an incompetent man, he would have an advantage over them. Indeed, when Peter announced that they were to conduct all subsequent business with Bertie rather than him, Lord Sinderby managed to look both affronted and pleased, a sure reflection on his faulty reading of Bertie’s character.

However high and mighty Lord Sinderby thought himself to be, however, Bertie had far from the mind of a simpleton, and had found out that the man should have had a better time of walking with his tail between his legs. The pungent remarks he dared throw Peter’s way nearly made Bertie lose his patience with the man and demand questions about a young boy named Daniel Clark who was being brought up by his widowed mother, but refrained on account of needing the money, and because Peter would not like him to reveal people’s secrets. Besides, however condescending Mr Aldridge appeared, Bertie doubted he was deserving of finding out his father was a cheat in front of two strangers. The young fellow had a kind nature, though he didn’t appear too sharp at reading people; Bertie should not be judging at any rate, considering that was the same mistake his interlocutors were making when considering him – for all he knew, Mr Aldridge’s kind guileless nature was nothing more than a screen for a resolute individual.

“Where will you be while we will be occupying Brancaster, Lord Hexham?” Mr Aldridge asked not unkindly, considering that Peter had requested they allow access to the Castle to some of his father’s friends who usually took to Brancaster in the period Lord Sinderby had reserved for himself.

“Business takes me outside the Country quite often,” Peter replied calmly but vaguely. “Which is why I leave Brancaster in the capable hands of Mr Pelham.”

“Are you a frequent visitor at Brancaster, then, Mr Pelham?”

Bertie smiled genially, “only in as far as business is concerned. I live close enough to be available in case of necessity, but I am not present to disturb the guests.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t be. Indeed, I was not suggesting you might,” Mr Aldridge proceeded to reassure in a flustered manner.

“Of course not. He is frightfully used to making himself scarce, and forgets that his reassurances could be perceived as accusations,” Peter intervened, as he sounded the bell for the butler. “Now, I’m afraid I shall have to say my goodbyes, I am in the middle of preparing for my next voyage and can delay no longer. I am sure everything is settled, and you will of course not hesitate to contact Mr Pelham in case of necessity.”

The dismissal was obvious, and Bertie got up with their clients, though he remained in the library as Peter escorted them outside. When he returned, Peter eyed him with an exasperated look. “Really, Bertie? ‘I am not present to disturb the guests’?”

“His father had exhausted all of my patience, I’m afraid.”

Peter gave a hearty laugh and squeezed his bicep affectionately. “They might start judging you a philistine, my dear Bertie. I shall think your reputation might suffer from it.”

“The difference between the two of us, Peter, is that my reputation means little to anyone but my mother.”

“If she did not care about mine as well, I should say that you had me beat anyway. We both know how rigorous and strict in her judgement Mrs Pelham can be,” Peter winked, and Bertie knew the comment was meant in jest, so he decided not to retort in any way. The less he involved himself in the rapport between his cousin and his mother, the happier Bertie was.

Peter suggested a walk in Kensington Gardens to get both of them free from the unpleasant business of having to suffer through people mistreating Bertie because of his station – though Peter was much too kind to phrase the invitation that way. A walk was just what both of them needed at any rate, and it did them both a world of good; the stress that wound Peter up like a tightrope whenever he had to act in front of people vanished from his shoulders just as the tension left Bertie’s.

As they were making their way back to Hexham House, Peter suddenly stopped in the middle of the pavement. “Am I wrong in saying Lord Sinderby paid a lot more than the standard price you have set for renters at Brancaster?”

“I added the cost of Charlton’s trip to London and his vacation, and the inconvenience of having his place be taken by Lord Sinderby’s own butler to the price, and he forgot to employ the common tactic of haggling.” Bertie lowered his Borsalino and proceeded to walk, heedless of his cousin’s soft snickers behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the matter of dates: I've tried to be as thorough as possible in creating a timeline for this story that matched the one from the series, but there might be a couple of inconsistencies derived from the fact that the series itself was a bit ambiguous at times.


	2. There lies the port (part II)

_23 October, 1924_

“I shall avail myself of any possible chance to steer clear of Cousin Peter’s guests, Mother, do not fear,” Bertie said over his shoulder as he finished packing for the days at Brancaster. He was late for his standards, and his mother was determined to delay him even more.

“Do you know who will be there?” She insisted.

“Yes, Mother.” He turned to her exasperated, “I know how to behave, and I will be the perfect guest, even though I should rightfully be more of a host than anything else. I should have invited you too if it were up to me, but Lord Sinderby’s doesn’t know of you, and I was surprised he invited me at all. As for Cousin William’s old friends, they are not horrendous people, but they would not have much to speak to you about, and I would rather prevent you the uncomfortable situation of being the only well-bred person there,” he finished sarcastically. “Now, can I go?”

“I’m sorry,” she relented. “I did not mean to sound so…”

“I love you too, Mother.” Bertie smiled kindly, and leaned to give her a peck on the cheek. “I will be back sooner than you know. Should any correspondence arrive for me here you feel cannot wait for my return tomorrow, you know to send it at Brancaster, of course. And, in case of an actual emergency, you can always ring for me.” No matter how little he was actually going to be absent from the cottage, Bertie knew his mother had gotten used to his presence and had most likely substituted him for his father when the late Mr Pelham had died. Still, despite his being a bachelor, it was not always in his interests to bring his mother along to every single social function he attended.

She nodded and let him go. Bertie didn’t have to speed along the empty road not to be late, his military precision requesting that on time be half an hour early, and late be ten minutes before he was actually supposed to arrive. He knew the grounds better than anyone else, except maybe some of the servants, and had no trouble finding his way to the room he would be sleeping and changing in for the duration of his stay. He was supposed to leave in the evening, but there was enough room at Brancaster for him to stay the night unnoticed and leave in the morning before anyone got up. He made sure Matthew helped him with his luggage to his room, so that he could give him an update without being too obvious about it. The report was not too pleasing, as far as Bertie was concerned.

“This Stowell character sounds rather dreadful.” He didn’t comment on Lord Sinderby because it wasn’t the right thing to do, but both he and Matthew knew that the man was as displeasing as the other thought. “If any problem at all shall arise for you, rather than for the guests, you will let me know presently. Lord Hexham would not tolerate it, and I shan’t either.”

“Thank you, Mr Pelham, I will inform the staff downstairs of your support.” Matthew left and Bertie took a second to feel glad that, at the very least, the Earl of Grantham didn’t appear to have brought further drama to the mix – though, of course, the hour was still young.

He hid all of his frustrations away and made his way downstairs; unlike the other guests, however, Bertie made his way where the loaders were assembled to check on their shooters’ guns. He rather preferred to check his own guns, even though he trusted the loaders at Brancaster implicitly. The special rapport he enjoyed with weapons had not faded in the three years since he had left the Army; the control and calm he felt engulf him whenever he handled a gun had not faded over time. He spoke with Mr Brown, whom he knew to be a competent and lenient man, and made sure he was available to be his loader. The man gladly accepted the request and let Bertie check the two rifles for himself before placing them in their cloth cover. Bertie checked the munitions as well and only then did he leave to join the carriages outside, where beaters and picker-ups were being rounded by the gamekeeper and being assigned their roles.

The trip in the moors was mostly an exercise in paying attention to the people around him. He recognised Cousin William’s old friends from previous visits, though they were decidedly less inclined to recognise him with more than polite nods, too well adjusted within their own circle to extend him an invitation to join them – they weren’t necessarily impolite, as much as they were clearly there for the shooting rather than social convention. As he had been asked to Brancaster by Lord Sinderby, however, Bertie found himself mixed in with the friends of the family. Lord Sinderby was as unpleasant as Bertie remembered him to be, but luckily enough the rest of the party was not. Mr Charlie Rogers was not a man of many words, but that was perfectly fine with Bertie. Mr Henry Talbot had given one look at the Earl of Grantham’s oldest daughter and had been managing to glance her way quite covertly ever since. Mr Tom Branson and the Earl’s second daughter appeared to be quite kind, as much as Mrs Aldridge – though the latter was a bit too spirited for what Bertie was generally used to.

When Lord Sinderby assigned them partners for the shooting, Bertie had trouble suppressing his dissent at being managed like a small child, but refrained from commenting when the man’s daughter-in-law told them not to mind the man. Besides, when Mr Rogers requested to be left alone, he seized the opportunity to offer his eager company to Lady Edith Crawley, who had caught his ear much earlier than she had caught his eye.

She walked with none of the confidence of her older sister, but where the first had appeared as hard as ice, Lady Edith had shown all of them her smile, and had not treated any of them as less than her peers, even when they so clearly weren’t on the same social level. The immediate response after his introduction was nothing short of a stark reminder of how very much unsuited he was for the company of an Earl’s daughter, so he tried to save face by remarking on the kindness of the Sinderbys, which, despite however much room Bertie had to complain about their decisions in regards to the manner in which they had rented Brancaster, was something he truly had not expected for himself. He wasn’t ashamed to say that he had been glad when a few polite inquiries revealed that Lady Edith was unattached, though of course he knew he was aiming much higher than he ought to, in his position.

There was little conversation to be had after that regardless, Bertie preferring to confer with Mr Brown on the conditions of the weather to ensure he would not embarrass himself when the time came to shoot. As soon as the rifle was in his hands, however, nothing more mattered to Bertie as he cradled the weapon in his hands and felt the reassuring weight of the metal settle in his arms. He was given silence as his companion, until the grouse came. He hit three of the four targets that were in his sights, and was wholly unhappy about the results. He couldn’t fault Mr Brown for not having exchanged his weapons as quickly as Bertie had wanted, though. The thing was, he had not shot in too long. Cousin Peter had not been around in the grouse season, and that meant that he was not invited to the shooting parties. Indeed, Lord Sinderby’s invitation had come to him as an unexpected kindness indeed. The fact that he was using Cousin Peter’s rifles however – which Peter had never truly used beyond the forced lessons his father had put him through – made him feel terribly good. Good enough to stand up to the interrogation of a Lady, at least, and to find even footing with her. He gave her a succinct and slightly inaccurate recount of his journey to become Brancaster’s agent, overlooking the fact that he had actually left the Army because of his father’s illness – though a part of him had still hoped to go back, then. He would get there if Lady Edith decided to find in him more than the company of a shooting session, but since he doubted that, all he could do was paint Peter in a good light to her, and keep his answers constrained to things people would expect from a conversation between strangers rather than delving into the story of his life to bare his soul naked.

He would only have the time to reflect on the fact that Lady Edith had managed to say something rather personal after he had finished his second round of shooting, which so unkindly and suddenly interrupted their conversation.

When they walked towards the carriages to have lunch at the tent, concern over Lord Grantham’s health overshadowed any conversation Bertie might have wished to have with Lady Edith, and he relented to become a fetcher for Mr Aldridge’s guns, if only to make himself useful. Matthew, who was walking without an umbrella behind the odious butler, seemed about ready to suggest he could take care of that particular task, but Bertie preferred not to put him on the spot with Mr Stowell and did as he was asked himself.

By the time he was back at the tent, having arranged Mr Aldridge’s needs to be met, Lady Edith was sat at the table in the middle of her family, and Bertie decided he would be better off not intruding. However much Lady Edith had appeared willing to converse with him, he doubted she would show the same level of attention to him when reminded so firmly of her natal, and he decided not to subject himself to the humiliation that would follow his attempts at intruding. He found a place close to Cousin William’s friends and settled there, discussing weather conditions and the way they impacted the grouse, after they allowed a brief mention of Bertie’s father and how their memories of him were quite positive.

The afternoon proceeded much in the same manner as the morning, with little time for conversation and a lot of his attention devoted to the noise and precision of his weapons. He could not fault anyone but himself for that particular turn of events.

He resolved to be more companionable at Tea when, to his great surprise, he found Lady Edith to be sitting alone. He engaged her in earnest conversation, and they had occasion to get to know each other better through sharing of common interests rather than personal questions. She had been enchanted by a book she had spied lying around, and after Bertie had made sure the book was brought to the library, where it rightfully belonged, he had taken her interest in it to talk of literature. It wasn’t often that Bertie had reason to converse on topics he found quite so interesting, mostly having to deal with estate business at all times and with the people connected to it. Despite its recent publication, Lady Edith had already managed to read Forster’s acclaimed _A Passage to India_ , and though Bertie had not had the chance to do so yet, he contrived to not be a fish out of water by using his first-hand experiences in India with the Army to contribute something to the conversation. If nothing else, that conversation convinced him that he should once again take up reading. He had allowed his habit to fall through the cracks of fixing Brancaster, but now that the estate was mostly settled, Bertie should not forget to treat himself to some of life’s pleasures.

Halfway through Tea, he spied a drama unfolding within the room. He kept his attention seemingly on Lady Edith, even as he saw the colour drain from Lord Sinderby’s face and his daughter-in-law running to the rescue in a rather forced effort. He might not have liked Lord Sinderby, but whoever had machinated to bring that poor woman and her love-child at Brancaster must have had a heart of stone. When Lady Sinderby brought the child towards Lady Edith and Bertie, he did his best to pretend that he found the occurrence nothing short of ordinary, and tried to make the boy feel as comfortable as possible. Lady Edith herself was much apt at dealing with the child, and soon they were joined by Mr Talbot and Mr Branson, effectively taking Lady Sinderby’s attention away from the awkward presentations of Mrs Clark and Atticus Aldridge. Bertie only had time to notice how quick Lady Edith was to pretend to know the boy’s mother when a comment of Lady Sinderby’s implied as much, before she left him to their care. Lord and Lady Grantham had certainly raised their daughters to be prepared for awkward situations.

When Lady Edith’s attention had effectively been taken up by other members of her family, Bertie left to go to his room, where he could more easily relax and recharge before the evening activities once again demanded his presence. He wasn’t sorry to have accepted Lord Sinderby’s invitation after all; where it had originally been only in deference to the fact that he had been invited and it would have been rude not to accept, now he had to admit that the thought of spending more time with Lady Edith appeased him immensely. However, dinner would be a dry affair if he weren’t placed beside Lady Edith at the table, he knew as much, his mind too preoccupied with thoughts of her to properly function unless in her proximity. He had little difficulty imagining that his place at the table would be removed from hers, of course, but he still could use the post-dinner activities to get the most of his time at Brancaster with her. It was very unlikely that he should see Lady Edith again, but for the time being, he could enjoy a bit of pretence. Upon walking into his room, he found that his white tie was missing, and with a dreadful feeling in his stomach, he set to find it in his car. He knew he had packed it expressly, so if it wasn’t with the rest of his clothing, it must have necessarily slipped and still be in the car. That was, unless it had been lost even before it had made it into the car.

He found a taxi parked in front of the entrance, and wasn’t too surprised to notice that soon after his arrival downstairs, Mrs Clark and her son were being whisked away by the young Mrs Aldridge. The scene before his eyes took his mind away from the crisis at hand, and it was thus that he found himself still searching for his tie with his head in the car when Lady Edith approached him.

The voice in which she asked if he were leaving gave him hope that she had found his companionship at least a hundredth bit as pleasant as he had found hers. He kept his tone normal as he answered, it wouldn’t do to appear too eager, and his mother had raised him not to be, at any rate. The fact that she reminded him he had told her about his invitation to dinner only helped him to remember what his place truly was in all of this. She helped him out to look for the tie, at least, and she stayed with him until he was able to find it, ensconced between the backseat’s cushions. By the time they had accomplished the task, however, the main door had been closed and when knocking didn’t hold any result, Bertie felt both exasperated and giddy, at the chance of spending more time alone with Lady Edith.

“Apparently Mr Stowell had other things on his mind when we slipped out,” he commented when Lady Edith finally appeared to give up on her chances at gaining entrance.

“Still, he should have at least made sure someone was at the door.” She went to ring the bell that had been installed some time during Bertie’s stint in the Army, and he waited patiently beside her. She was the first to break the silence, his instinct always being to speak only when there was enough time to have an actual conversation. “Were you not a little early on preparing for dinner?”

“It is still early for dinner, I suppose. I guess I went to get changed out of boredom.”

“Oh?”

He gave himself a mental slap. He had been spending time with her before he had gone up; naturally, she would assume that his words were an attack on him. “I’m afraid as soon as you became involved in conversation with your mother, I found no great stimulation in my conversation with Lord Axle. There is only so much grouse I can digest in one day.” It was a gamble, he knew. She was a lady, not just a commoner who could be wooed by flirtation techniques, but he still felt the need to try.

There was no blush, but at least she smiled. “Is he not one of Lord Hexham’s friends?”

“I have voiced my opinion to Lord Hexham already, though it is fairer to say that Lord Axle was much more connected to the former Marquess, rather than the current.”

Whatever answer she had been about to give, was swallowed in her throat by the opening of the main door by a hurried Hugh, another one of the footmen. “Apologies Lady Edith, Mr Pelham, the hallboy had a hard time of finding anyone to open the door.”

“No harm done,” she said kindly. Bertie echoed her sentiment and reassured Hugh that everything was all right. They went up the main staircase together, though mostly in silence. Outside they had had a two minutes’ talk, at best, which had granted little opportunity for a deeper investigation into Lady Edith’s character, but it meant a lot to Bertie, for it gave him the confidence he’d need later on to approach her amongst her peers, something he had refused to openly do, until now.

His expectations of dinner, low as they had been, were entirely met, but for some reason, Lord Sinderby had seen fit to place a gramophone in the library – a clear desecration of the sanctuary that the room was, but an opportunity for Bertie to make use of the spine he had grown in ages past, when confronted with a choice between life and death as a daily occurrence. The older couples had retreated to the green drawing room, leaving the young to their fun, though Bertie was quick to notice that some were having more fun than others.

Mr Talbot, who was less of an aristocrat that Bertie himself, despite the ring on his little finger, had claimed Lady Mary’s attentions and her partnership in dancing. Despite the fact that she had appeared to him as a complete snob, the oldest Crawley sister had the air of someone who loved to be centre of attention, and to have her charm and beauty repeatedly asserted by a man’s ministration; in that, Mr Talbot, could not have played a better part. Mr and Mrs Aldridge, of course, were dancing quite happily with each other, their mutual looks of adoration speaking quite plainly to the novelty of their wedding and the purity of their love for one another. The last couple on the dance floor – if indeed such a name could be given to the library’s carpeting – was composed of friends of Mr Aldridge, whose name Bertie hadn’t truly had a chance to learn.

He made his way to the gramophone, where Lady Edith and Mr Rogers were conversing amiably, hoping to find an in to ask her to dance. She was the only available lady left not dancing, and had her own pick of men to choose from should she wish to take to the floor: Mr Rogers and himself excluded, Mr Branson was also available. And, indeed, it was Mr Branson who asked her to partner him, while Bertie kept talking with Mr Rogers, in spite of his wishes. It was easier for her brother-in-law to ask Lady Edith for a dance, but that was no excuse for Bertie’s own reticence. He knew he could move quite well on his feet, having had enough lessons to feel confident in himself, so he had had no excuse to tarry beyond nerves. There was only one thing to do, of course, and that was to chase his insecurities away; he seldom made use of his memories of the War to give himself courage, but he did in that instance – if it was the only thing that could manage to give him some self-assurance, then he would take it, despite the fact that it usually had the effect of turning his mannerism to a rather colder degree than he liked them to be. There was little space for sentimentality amongst the trenches.

Half-way through the song, Lady Edith and Mr Branson’s steps slowed until they ground to a complete stop. Bertie observed with rapt attention the emotions which flickered on the woman’s face – surprise, fear (terror), embarrassment, regret, relief and love of the kind Bertie often found himself feeling for Peter. He knew it looked like a moment which begged not to be interrupted, that needed to grow and consolidate itself, but he had no notion of how much longer she would stay in the library if he didn’t make her stay, so he went, with slow but long strides, so that he might announce his approach but not take too long in reaching his destination. And then suddenly he was standing in front of her, Mr Branson giving him an honest smile as Bertie asked his sister-in-law for a dance. Bertie had a notion of liking Mr Branson a lot, in that moment.

He was oblivious to the other couples moving around as his sole focus was on the woman in his arms, transfixed with her beauty and her grace as well as with her character. He was glad to force a smile from her face as he pointedly remarked on her curiosity – though it was an embarrassed one, rather than one of delight. He resolved to change tactics after that, striving to be less intrusive and more affable, but he shouldn’t have bothered, because after his blunder, she did answer his question with unexpected honesty.

“I am afraid I have fallen into the bad habit, yes.” He kept leading her, of course, but the surprise must have registered on his face because she gave him an explanation for that. “I am the owner of a magazine, and ever since I have acquired the position, I have found myself in the position of becoming rather nosy. Not very lady-like of me, I know.”

“You will hopefully forgive me this opinion, but my experience has actually shown me that it is the business of ladies to be curious.” He had said the last word with no small amount of irony in it.

“Men are not as immune to that particular foible as they’d like to think.”

“In that,” Bertie said as the dance drew to a close. “I shall plead to be quite guilty myself.”

He would have loved to partner with her again, but Mr Rogers had yet to have a go at dancing, and Mr Talbot looked eager to re-join the floor, so Bertie reluctantly let Lady Edith go, though his eyes didn’t stray from her figure much. When the next dance started, he remained in the background since Mr Aldridge had taken his turn with Lady Edith, detaching himself from the arms of his wife for the first time. Bertie shared some conversation with Mr Branson, who truly was an amenable chap, and became engrossed with discussing agent business in spite of himself, leading to his whiling away the evening. In the end, he felt a great deal of satisfaction regardless of that. He had gotten to dance and speak with a lovely woman, and had engaged a fine man in stimulating conversation over what was usually a matter of work rather than pleasure for him. He went to sleep content.

The next morning, he woke only slightly after dawn, and fled the Castle before anyone aside from the servants could notice his departure, ready to start his new day, and somewhat eager to share details about time spent with Lady Edith with someone. His mother, of course, wouldn’t do – there was no sense in raising her hopes when nothing was clearly going to come of it – and Peter’s answer would probably get to him when Bertie had finally managed to forget about Lady Edith – though Bertie was in the state of mind of those who did not believe oblivion to be an actual possibility, already smitten with the woman beyond all hope of salvation. He would have to invite himself over to Harry’s some time soon, and see how much his friend was ready to indulge him.


	3. There lies the port (part III)

_8 November, 1924_

It had taken him longer than anticipated to set up a visit with Harry, but he had finally managed it. He had had to run to London to put the final stamp of approval on Charlton’s choice of servants for Hexham House, and then he had had to finally tackle the issue with Butteryhaugh Hall. The residence had not seen a single occupant for the past three years, as far as Bertie knew, and it seemed a shame that it should stay unoccupied when he was letting Brancaster Castle for the grouse season as well as considering opening it up for the general public to visit when the season finished and the Castle remained unoccupied. The Hall was in rather a favourable place; close enough to Kielder Water to allow for lake activities, as well as the fishing that could be enjoyed in some of the tributaries that ran close to Butteryhaugh. The only way to deal with a property, of course, was to go and visit it, and Bertie had done as much as soon as the Sinderbys had left Brancaster and Charlton had returned to his post. He trusted the butler to keep matters in control and allowed himself to stay at Butteryhaugh for a couple of days instead of taking the train daily, to ensure matters were handled correctly.

Harry himself had been quite busy after Bertie’s return, of course. They might have arranged to meet for a lunch at the pub, but Bertie hadn’t minded waiting for an invitation at Harry’s home. His wife always offered a home-cooked meal – and what a splendid cook she was. Besides, Bertie hadn’t seen the children in a long time, and had missed them. Having been made godfather to all of them, Bertie felt a sense of responsibility towards the children, not just the natural affection that had come when Harry had showed them to him for the first time. The two girls, much like the two boys, had captured Bertie’s heart the first second he had laid eyes on them. He had always wanted children of his own, of course, but not ever had he wished it as much as when he had held the newborns in his arms. With neither of their parents having a male sibling, Bertie had had no one with whom to contend for the title of godfather, having known Harry since they were young children, barely out of the cradle, and having found in his wife, Ada, a true friend.

Elizabeth was in the kitchen with her mother, the only one of the four children quiet enough to be trusted anywhere near an operating stove, while her three siblings were in the family room with their father and Bertie.

He had been talking about Lady Edith for a while when George, the youngest, interrupted him. “Uncle Bertie, why are you being so boring tonight?”

Harry burst out laughing before he could contain himself, though he did give Bertie a very apologetic look while doing it. Chastising George, at that point, appeared entirely useless, so Bertie chose not to begrudge the fact that Harry didn’t. “I had the impression you thought business-talk was boring.”

George pondered that for a while before replying. “Well, yes. But this is boring as well.”

“Does that mean you find me boring all the time?”

“No, Uncle Bertie, we love you, you’re not boring!” Margaret protested, clearly afraid he’d take offence even though he was just teasing. The deadly glare she shot George made the little boy apologise and echo her sentiment while Thomas, who at fourteen had probably more sense than both his younger siblings, just smirked.

“Then what is it that makes me not boring?” Bertie asked, hoping to get from the children something he could use to entertain them; the truth was, he had been rather fixated on the topic, and there was no rush to engage in it to a further extent when the children were still awake.

“You were a soldier!” George exclaimed quickly.

Bertie had never talked about his days in the Army to the children, though they were aware of it necessarily since he had visited them more than once while on leave, and indeed George’s own Christening had been during one of his few leaves during the War. He didn’t like to encourage Thomas or George to enlist, for, keeping abreast of the current political situation, he feared they would end up mixed in some European war that seemed to brew on the horizon or, at the very least, an uprising in Germany – the situation there was not nearly as resolved as the War treaties made everyone believe.

“There’s nothing entertaining about war, George,” Bertie said to quench the boy’s apparent enthusiasm. “It is an awful affair, and we should never hope for it. And as for being a soldier on a daily basis, I can tell you it is not much different than being a land agent. A lot of paperwork and too many people clamouring for attention.”

“Bertie is right, George, you should hope to never need an Army in your time.” Harry’s addendum served to strengthen Bertie’s position.

“But what if people attack us? Is it not honourable to be a soldier, then?” Thomas asked. Considering he had always shown more interest in his father’s medical career than anything else, Bertie was surprised by the fervour hidden beneath the inquiry.

“Every job is honourable, as long as the reason why you undertake it is wholesome, Thomas.” Bertie was not in a real position to discourage anyone from joining the Army, so his tactics were always of deflecting the heart of the question. He might have not understood his mother’s protectiveness and her reluctance to see him enlist when he had taken his step, but faced with the prospect of either Thomas or George holding a gun for other than sporting purposes, Bertie suddenly shared in her fright. Indeed, he might not have children of his own, but he certainly cared enough about Harry’s to want to protect them at all times.

Thomas appeared appeased at the answer, at any rate, and the conversation moved forward still, until Ada and Elizabeth joined them with dinner. Bertie was content to let the others steer the course of the chatter during the meal, and participated as gladly in a conversation about cricket as he did in Elizabeth’s enthrallment with the latest fashion. Indeed, he regaled Elizabeth and Margaret with as accurate descriptions as he was capable of giving about the clothes worn by the ladies whom he had met at Brancaster Castle, much to their delight.

“Oh, they must have been marvellous,” Elizabeth commented dreamily. “Imagine how splendid it would be to wear such regal wear on a daily basis.”

“Tiresome, I’d say,” Thomas commented a bit waspishly from his seat beside Bertie. “And what a waste. They’re probably never going to wear a dress twice in their life.”

“You only say that because you wouldn’t know how to behave in front of a lady if you found yourself facing one. Not like Uncle Bertie.”

“Oh, keep me out of this,” he mumbled as an aside, so that only Ada could hear him.

“If you’re so in love with him, why don’t you marry him?”

“Thomas!” His father thundered. “Stop teasing your sister and apologise to both her and Bertie.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks had become red, and though Thomas did indeed apologise, Bertie thought the boy might have actually struck a chord. “I would be so lucky to find a woman like either of your sisters,” he said when the two had settled their childish argument. “And when they are older, I shall make sure any young man wishing to court either of them will have to pass inspection with me as well as with your father and yourself, Thomas.”

“I don’t want to get married,” Margaret declared, with all the conviction of an eleven years old child. “Boys are useless.”

“Thank you very much for the endorsement, Margaret,” Harry joked.

“I agree with Margaret, though not about boys being useless,” Thomas said. “What’s the point of finding someone else? It’s all a great fuss for no reason.”

“As someone who is alone,” Bertie intervened, “I can tell you I sympathise with your stance. Still, I think when you meet the right someone, no reason beyond their existence will be necessary for you to wish to marry them.”

“Is this about this Lady Edith of yours?” Margaret asked.

“What’s this?” Ada asked, giving him the look his mother might have given him, had he chosen to make more than the barest mention about Lady Edith Crawley upon his return from Brancaster.

“Uncle Bertie is in love!” George exclaimed, turning his nose in disdain at the mere thought.

Had Bertie been less practiced about finding himself in awkward situations involving the children, he might have blushed. As it was, he gave a condescending look to the two youngest children before turning to Ada. “When last I was at Brancaster, I met an interesting and charming woman, whom I might be smitten with. That being said, I am reasonably certain I will never meet her again, and I shall simply have to make peace with that.”

“And that’s why he couldn’t speak of anything but her, as soon as he arrived,” Thomas commented with a snicker, earning himself another reproach from Harry, who promptly changed the topic of conversation to something less involved.

After the children were sent to bed, however, as Bertie made himself useful in the kitchen by helping Ada with washing the dishes, the two adults returned on the topic, asking Bertie more sensible questions that showed a genuine interest in his feelings. “How smitten are you with her exactly?”

“Enough that I haven’t quite stopped thinking about her for the past weeks,” he sighed. “There’s little I could offer her, of course. As the daughter of an earl, she is certainly used to a much higher standard than the one I could provide. More than that, though, she is a modern woman; she owns a magazine for which she sometimes writes opinion articles. And her opinions are actually worth listening to, as far as I could tell from meeting her.”

“What’s the magazine name?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. She never said, and though it would be easy to find out, I promised myself I wouldn’t look into it. I could find out her whole life story, but I feel like I don’t want to. Not like this, at least.” He had investigated his fair share of characters on behalf of his cousin as well as in his capacity of estate agent without ever being overtaken by guilt. Yet, the mere notion of doing the same for Lady Edith Crawley made him feel dirty and unworthy. She had been honest with him, had answered all of his questions more openly than would have been strictly necessary, trusting him with a part of herself that he himself had not shared with her; the idea of violating that trust by making inquiries behind her back appeared sacrilegious to him.

“Is there any chance you might see her again?” Ada asked tactfully.

“I wrote to Cousin Peter, suggesting he might try to persuade Lord Sinderby to rent Brancaster again next year, but even that sounds implausible. Peter will rightfully ask if I am right in the head, and then promptly remind me that it’s people who are supposed to come to him to stay at Brancaster, rather than the other way around.”

“If anything you have told me of him is true, I rather think he’d go so far as to invite the Crawleys at Brancaster for free, just to see you happy.”

“Quite right, Ada. But I sometimes like to pretend my sense is Peter’s voice reaching me from across a continent and two seas.”

“Will he come back soon?” Harry asked to change the subject, probably thinking it best to not dwell on what was a lost cause. Of course, Peter was as much of a lost cause as Bertie’s chances with Lady Edith.

“If I’m lucky, I’ll entice him to return for the spring. He hibernates in Tangiers, nowadays, and is set to return to British shores only in case of an emergency.

“Does the estate suffer from it?”

“Not to the point where we are struggling, no, but it would be somehow reassuring to have a more stable presence at Brancaster. His absence has prompted talks of removing his title and assign it to someone else. It’s all utter balderdash, of course, but it speaks well of the attitude towards him and his position.”

“Does he know?” Ada asked.

“He is far smarter than people give him credit for, yes,” Bertie sentenced. “He says he is sorting out the good grass from the scrub, but I am growing somewhat concerned for him.”

“Why is that?”

“He will come back,” Bertie said finally. “But I can’t help but fear that when he does, he will find enough animosity surrounding him that he shall become dispirited by it.”

“I know you like him, Bertie,” Harry intervened. “But you have coddled him quite enough. He is a grown man, and should be making sensible choices on his own. You cannot protect him from his own decisions.”

“No,” Bertie agreed. “No, I suppose you’re right.”

* * *

_23 November, 1924_

_Dearest Cousin Peter,_

_The Castle has been closed down for the winter. The staff has been left alone to properly oversee the repairs undertaken on the north wing. I trust Charlton implicitly to make sure the workers are nothing short of efficient, but still I am making the time to visit Brancaster frequently to keep them on their toes. If the weather allows it, they should be done before the end of this year._

_Hexham House in London is running smoothly, the new staff is greatly reduced but highly efficient, Charlton’s selection was spotless. For that reason, I have thought it appropriate to reward him with a special bonus this year. If you have any idea, I pray you send it my way, if not I was thinking about a bottle of wine from Brancaster’s winery – he shall enjoy it more than I ever would, and deserves it more than you, to be fair._

_Butteryhaugh Hall is showing its promise. I have secured all items of particular value and shipped them back to Brancaster; the books have been added to the library and I have made room for some paintings along the corridors and the staircases (you will, of course, complain about my decorative tastes, but I hope that the idea of paintings not in their proper place should be a further enticement for you to make a return this spring), but I have had to place most objects in storage for even my untrained eye could see that they do not rightfully belong in Brancaster – maybe you will find use for them in London, but that can all be sorted out later. The inventory of the house has been completed, and I am quite confident that we can start renting the house as soon as spring comes and the water becomes accessible again. Interest has been shown already by some wealthy men for fishing, and I have even had a request for a less specific sojourn. If everything goes well, the house shall start paying for its own upkeep soon enough._

_As far as farming is concerned, we have sown the seeds of our new plan this year. The augmentation of oats and reduction of barley has worked well, and the proceedings have shown as much. The sheep have been brought downhill to pasture on the wheat (which is the last part of the crop rotation) and the grass under sown. We have had to reduce tillage and increase permanent grass because the measures taken up to now were not in line with the new economic market. The prospects for next year are looking good; the reduction in spring crops is to be paired with an increase in livestock. I am already looking into expanding to cattle – cows would mean a different type of dairy product, of course, and thus an expansion of the factory production also._

_There’s not much change as far as our poultry is concerned, the only item of interest there being the selection of the turkey for the Christmas luncheon with the farmers (which, I surmise from your stay in Tangiers, I will have to host), which is already in question. Mr Gibson has presented me with a strong candidate for the role, but I am quite reluctant to go with his suggestion on account that the bird in question has shown remarkable promise as a strong genetic breeder. If you could find words to tell Mr Gibson that you would rather have an older and more spent turkey meet its end for the farmers’ delight, I would be grateful (just as long as those words do not imply that you should see no poultry killed at all)._

_Finally, I know you are not too keen on investments, but I have been talking with Harry (my doctor friend) and he mentioned the fact that there is a lot of research into the medical sector. We shouldn’t forget that Newcastle University has a leading medical faculty. What I am trying to say is that pharmaceutics and medical machinery are something we might have overlooked, but could be used to make some liquidity. We would have to discuss in much more detail all the implications, and I shall inform myself better about which ventures are most promising, but I would very much like you not to dismiss this as readily as you have any other attempt I have made at suggesting investments._

_Now that we are done with all the minutiae of your kingdom (and it is yours, Peter, do try to keep that in mind as you decide whether or not you really ought to read all the details of its functioning), let me steer the conversation in another direction. Hopefully one which you will find more interesting, though it is a great source of embarrassment for myself._

_You see, I had concluded that I should forget the matter altogether, and not writing to you was part of that process, but unfortunately I find myself wholly unable to let go. The thing is, I think I have fallen in love. I should start at the beginning, of course, rather than the end, but I did not want to keep you on tenterhooks; I have found I can be quite verbose about this particular subject, much to Harry’s chagrin (I have managed to restrain myself from repeating the experience of talking about the lady in question in front of his children, but he shall not escape my forlornness, unfortunately, and so shan’t you)._

_You will remember that Brancaster was rented by Lord Sinderby back in September. Well, as I had reported to you, Lord Sinderby had invited me to stay with them for a day of shooting and a dinner (I should here say that I took advantage of your guns and your hospitality both, on the day in question, and let myself sleep there rather than chance the road to the cottage at night). On the day in question, which I have so far lacked to report to you, I met a woman who captured my heart quite completely, and whom I cannot forget. I have tried, of course, and failed spectacularly at it. Her name is Lady Edith Crawley, and she is the second daughter of the Earl of Grantham, a station that puts her well out of my prospects for marriage, of course, and I have to tell you, Peter, if I could do away with it, I would not hesitate to call on her and make a fool of myself. She is smart and self-possessed, but lacks not in grace and manners; with her brain and her looks I should think she would be married or unattainable, but she was nothing if not approachable and kind, to the point where I wonder if she would consider me even as I am. Of course, her family would not – and why would they? – but I have found myself stuck on the notion of her too long now to simply put what I feel for her down to infatuation._

_Even as I write to you, the finer details of our conversations are slipping my mind, but the basic fact remains that I am not likely to forget her anytime soon. I had a mind of asking you to fathom some way of inviting her – along with her family, if necessary – at Brancaster or to Hexham House, and that was when I realised how truly she was affecting me. You know me better than most people, enough to understand how absurd a request of the kind would be from me, and it is only to limn my state of mind that I am putting it now into writing, not because I actually wish you to do such a thing. I have decided to let fate run its course; if we are destined for each other, then let destiny contrive a way to put us together._

_Know that when these words will reach you, I shall no longer be in a time of doldrums but in one of recuperation, for I have found that even writing this little to you has helped me in no small manner to regain my vigour and my state of tranquillity. I will find my place again._

_Devotedly yours,_

_Bertie_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the information pertaining to farming in Northumberland was taken from this article: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/280009547_Land_use_change_in_Northumberland_from_1800's_to_today-_lessons_from_agricultural_history


	4. 'T is not too late to seek a newer world (part I)

_16 March, 1925_

Peter was home. Bertie’s eyes told him that his cousin would much rather have remained in Tangiers longer still, but he was home. That, at least, was something. He was wont to leave later and return around April, when spring wasn’t just a nominal season that was about to begin, but was rather in full bloom, but he had left in early autumn and had, surprisingly, found it in his heart to return accordingly. Bertie had spent the previous two days (after allowing him to settle back into Brancaster and to give a party to keep the peers happy and appeased) parading him around the estate to all the tenants and farmers, so that they might see he still existed and, possibly, cared for their business as much as they did. Today, he had insisted on taking a walk around the grounds, just the two of them, and to invite him and his mother to a small dinner – with no other guests, for a change.

As they walked around the moors, Bertie took in the stride of his cousin, and his deduction about Peter hiding something, a result of his invitation of Bertie’s mother to dinner, was compounded to the point where he felt compelled to ask about it immediately. “Why are you subjecting me to dinner with you and Mother?”

Peter smiled kindly, though his eyes remained firm on the horizon in front of them, the hills and the seemingly endless expanse of ground that surrounded them. “I thought you liked both of us greatly.”

“Peter, please, don’t make me force it out of you.”

“Will you be appeased if I tell you that, for once, my reason will not infuriate your mother or indeed lower her estimation of me?”

There was a need in his voice for those extra hours of silence, and despite the fact that he had no true obligation to respect Peter’s unexpressed wish, Bertie felt compelled to. They kept walking in silence after that. Bertie felt much like a private following his superior officer on the battlefield, except that there was no danger lurking ahead. No, there was only silent contemplation, like the one that came after the ceasefire, as the battleground emptied of life and death. All that remained was a state of eternal limbo, where memories clashed with the empty pit of death, and the future of individuals was replaced by that of the land. Bertie chanced a look at his cousin and discovered that Peter’s contemplative mood must not have been focused on happy occurrences either.

“It is dawning on me,” he said breaking the silence. “I will be officially married next year. I think I should announce it on my fortieth birthday, possibly, and we can close the deal by the following September. You will stand at my side when the day comes, of course.”

Bertie might have suggested Peter should pick someone else for the role, but he knew that his cousin was in need of at least one thing in his life not to be dictated by his role as Marquess; if it had to be the reason for Bertie’s fall in Peter’s relation’s opinions, then so be it. “It would be my honour, whatever your feelings about Cousin Adele.”

“Good,” Peter smiled bitterly. “At least my Best man will be to my liking.”

“You are not bound to her, you know. There are far more pleasant girls you could find for yourself, someone you would at the very least respect and care about in some way.”

“The problem is, Bertie, I should feel guilty about ensnaring someone whom I would respect into a marriage such as the one I could offer. Cousin Adele, at the very least, is in it for the sole purpose of being the Marchioness, because that is what she has been taught to strive for, her entire life.”

It wasn’t something Bertie had ever considered; yes, he knew that the marriage was to be loveless, but he had never fathomed the idea that that was precisely why Peter had stuck to it, regardless of his easy charm and soft nature, which artlessly attracted women to his side, in spite of his obvious predilections. It was why all gossip centred around Peter had never gone too far, and had never become public. Peter was someone who was easy to like; his misfortune had been his birth – he was born for a role he couldn’t fulfil but which a plethora of other people wished could be theirs. Envy and spite coloured his life at Brancaster, and that was why he escaped to foreign lands, where judging and prying eyes could not reach him. Bertie had often heard about deviant men in his life, but Peter had never quite fit into that category; tales of spite and corruption had never fit the picture of the solitary boy who had searched for nothing but a slice of silence and peace, and had grown into a man so very fond of life, who was enthusiastic about the simplest things and found reason to complexity. Peter was kind, and though his struggle to find love and appreciation was true, it had never turned him into a monster, an abomination. When Bertie looked at him, he saw a man in desperate search of something he could never be granted, who knew as much but did not resign himself to the pain inflicted upon him, rather preferring to see the world in all of its beauty, even though he should hardly participate in it.

They were back at Brancaster for lunch, and Peter suggested they go over his estate’s affairs, the more administrative and bureaucratic aspects of it. It was the first time since Bertie’s tenure as agent that Peter had ever advanced such a request; it was a sure sign that Peter was increasingly committed to truly beginning the life he had been born for. Bertie knew his cousin to be smart and prepared for the task ahead, for their studies had run parallel at one point in their youth, but it was truly astonishing to actually see him at work. His attention to detail and his understanding of the workings of an estate business were up to standards, indeed even Bertie’s specialised knowledge on the most recent agricultural and estate laws did not appear to be far superior to that of his cousin. Peter was rusty, of that there was no doubt, but he was in no way nescient. If he hadn’t known his cousin as well as he did, Bertie might have feared he would have been out of a job in the near future.

They were ensconced in Peter’s study for most of the afternoon; they would have foregone tea if it had not been for Charlton’s consideration – the butler had served them without their even realising it. As it were, time for dinner was fast approaching, and neither of them was close to changing. Bertie remembered himself when Charlton interrupted them by announcing that Mrs Pelham was on the phone and wished to speak to her son.

They sent her the driver from the estate while Peter insisted that Bertie try one of his father’s dining attires. Bertie was slightly slimmer than the late Lord Hexham, but the alternative of dining in his tweed did not seem dignified, especially when his mother was surely going to make an effort.

Polite conversation at the table was strained beyond belief, and Bertie had to wonder at the decision Peter had taken to host this small get-together. “Before I forget,” he said when they were being served their first course. “You are both invited at my birthday party on the eighteenth. I should have probably sent out a formal invitation, but it seemed silly considering I was having dinner with you both today. I hope you will attend.”

“We will be there,” Bertie confirmed before his mother could say anything. “Thank you, Peter.” He was glad his mother echoed the sentiment.

“Now, to the reason why you are actually here.” Peter smiled knowingly. “I have heard that there is some work being done in Parliament over a new legislation on the administration of estates. I am not privy to any details, and if it is being written now, it will certainly not be taking effect before the beginning of next year, but it has made me think of the estate and its security nonetheless.”

“Is everything not insured for the heir?” Mother asked, tactfully not mentioning Bertie’s name.

“It should be, yes,” Peter agreed. “However, I decided to have the family lawyer down in London, Mr Bell, analyse the current succession law in all of its details, and the truth is, should anything happen to me, whoever inherits is bound to spend a fortune on taxation. The supertax introduced by Minister Lloyd George for the People’s Budget has already weighed heavily on this family at the death of my father, I should not like to have it happen again.”

“There is less liquidity now that there was then,” Bertie intervened. “The repairs we have undertaken for the castle have seen to it; nominally the value of Brancaster itself has not increased, since the estate itself was not properly valued before Cousin William’s passing, when it should have truly been lower than what it was purported to be. We have also made Butteryhaugh Hall a self-sustained manor in its own right, meaning that even at its passage it shall not weigh on the estate proper.”

“Yes, and _your_ ,” Peter stressed the adjective, “innovations in land productions have made sure there won’t be any piece of land that cannot care for itself, but the value of this single room would require for liquidity which we cannot truly afford to lose, if we are to insure Brancaster’s security.”

“I am guessing you have a plan,” Bertie’s mother intervened.

Peter smiled, “I do. It does not save us, so to speak, but it does reduce some of the costs. First of all, before we even discuss such matters, I wanted you to know that I have made use of the exemption from estate duty through the gift for consideration of marriage. I have drawn up the coverage of £199, half for Bertie and half for his future wife shortly before Cousin Charles’ death.”

“Why did you never say?” Bertie asked.

“Because you have never truly talked of marriage, Bertie, and though my memory is good, I needed a reminder of the fact that a part of you does, indeed, wish to be married to remember it.” Bertie blushed, much to his chagrin, the veiled reference to the letter he had sent to Peter last November a strong reminder of the woman he had still not stopped thinking about. Peter had not mentioned it in any way, possibly divining that Bertie had no wish to discuss it, or at the very least electing to let him decide whether or not he wanted to. “It was meant to be a gift, truly, but now it occurs to me that you should probably be aware of that in case anyone contests your right to it.”

“You didn’t have to do it, regardless. That is money for your heir, not –”

“Bertie, please,” Peter interrupted him. “There would be no Brancaster for any heir of mine without your father and your work as an agent. I am giving you far less than you actually deserve. Unfortunately, the gift had to be made when you were unemployed, so that it fit into the charitable purpose category – you had no income, then, and no property of your own. I know it sounds demeaning, but I figured it would help you swallow the sour taste if you knew it was as much for you as it is for my heir.”

“That was quite sensible of you,” Mother commented, much to Bertie’s consternation.

Peter, rather than taking insult, smiled contently. Dinner passed in companionable conversation after that, a clear signal that they would all be waiting for after the meal to discuss anything else of importance. However much they trusted the staff at Brancaster, such matters were not for anyone’s ears but their own, and though both Peter’s and Bertie’s French was up to standards, Mother’s wasn’t and the staff would at the very least know that they were discussing sensible business.

“Now,” Peter started as they were left alone in the library after dinner. “To the most contrived part of this inheritance business. I have decided that the best possible solution to save a considerable amount of money is to fraction the estate as much as possible, and this is why you are actually here today. There is little I can do for Hexham House and Brancaster if I do not wish to incur a serious investigation from the government, but I can split Butteryhaugh Hall from the rest of the land without raising too much suspicion. I would make you owner of it for a nominal sum, this way I don’t have to raise your wage to cover you paying for it, and it will then not be taxable.”

“That will still incur taxation,” Bertie opposed. “The exemption only applies when the property passes by full money consideration, and I certainly don’t have enough to cover those kinds of costs, which _would_ require you to lend me the money to buy it, and consequently incurring an investigation.”

“Not if I were to be made trustee, it would not.”

“But I have no children,” Bertie remarked.

“No,” his mother said, with the tone of someone who had understood far more than Bertie himself. “But it is not only children who are in need of a trustee.”

“I admit it was not easy, but Mr Bell assures me that a widow could fit the bill. If Mrs Pelham were to buy, I could be made trustee. In the event of my death, the estate would pass to you, Cousin Mirada, and then we would, at the very least, skip taxation for one generation. If the worst came to pass, Butteryhaugh would have still become separate from the rest of the estate and thus been considered a small estate for which taxation is much lower.”

“You place great trust in me; what is to say that I will not simply take it and link it to Bertie’s heirs?”

“I would bequeath Brancaster to Bertie in its entirety and trust that he would make sure my heir inherits it. And if your son enjoys so much of my trust, it is because he was raised to be an honest man. If I can trust him implicitly, then I can trust you much in the same manner.”

Peter got up from the couch he was occupying and retrieved a handful of papers from a cabinet, placing them on the table. Bertie’s mother got up from her own position to sign it, clearly not even bothering to read the sum that was supposed to pass hands; Bertie would take care of that in the morning, as well as reading the full contract and having a word with Mr Bell to ensure he understood everything perfectly well. “I have also drawn up a will, already signed and legally valid, in which you are consolidated as my sole heir, Bertie. Until I have a child of my own the estate would be yours regardless, but a will is the only thing to properly secure any form of succession, and I shall not be caught unawares. I wish for no challenge from any relations, in the matter of the estate and the liquidity.” He didn’t mention the Grahams openly, but Bertie had a clear understanding of the fact that he did consider his cousin and his aunt to be capable of challenging the inheritance.

There was little point to any further conversation beyond that, but Bertie nevertheless took the opportunity to scrutinise his cousin. It was strange that, all of a sudden, Peter should put so much stock in inheritance law. There was no reason for him to be preoccupied about his health; he was young, though not in his prime, and he was strong despite his meekness. Bertie feared that Peter had gotten some ill-advised thought into his head, that he was thinking of taking his own life, but it was merely a passing shadow; Peter was many things, but a coward and a defeatist were not amongst them. Maybe he was finally becoming responsible for himself and his life, taking full possession of his role as Marquess for the first time since Cousin William’s death. Still, an unsettling feeling had set at the bottom of Bertie’s stomach, an ominous premonition about something terrible brewing beneath the surface, and he could not quench it by simply looking at his cousin’s affable demeanour.

When the time for them to leave came, Bertie ushered his mother ahead of him and stopped to talk with Peter. “I am not questioning your reasoning, but I would like to know what has brought this on. You have never considered death quite so accurately.”

Peter gave him a sad look. “You are too smart for your own good, Bertie. Someone close to me recently passed away. He was a bit younger than myself, and his death came unbidden. I found myself acquainted with mortality in such a way that I could no longer pretend that it did not matter. The only certainty in life, my dear Bertie, is death. Unfortunately, that cannot be changed.” Bertie was about to respond but was interrupted by Peter signalling the presence of his mother waiting at the entrance for the car. “You should not keep her waiting too long, or she will think I am trying to lead you astray.”

Yearnshire, Peter’s valet, who had previously fitted the late Marquess’ suit for him, came forward to give Bertie his coat and a bag which contained Bertie’s tweeds. “I will see you tomorrow, Peter.”

Bertie wanted desperately to ask Peter more about this loss he had suffered, but as he laid in bed that night, he resolved not to. Peter had had the entire day to broach the subject and had not done so; as his cousin had respected Bertie’s wishes not to talk about matters Bertie had not felt comfortable sharing, so Bertie ought to comply with Peter’s own desires in this instance. There was a moment for prying, but this was not it. All Bertie could do was make sure that his cousin took care of himself and did not stop being himself in the face of grief.


	5. 'T is not too late to seek a newer world (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was about to forget to publish today because I got caught up in the festivities. Hope you've all had a lovely Easter in spite of the circumstances of the current crisis. Stay safe everyone!

_12 May, 1925_

Peter had resolved to change his entire plans for the year; he left for Tangiers in the middle of April, having arranged all business with the estate and with Hexham House, and having been present for the annual Easter luncheon with the farmers and tenants; he had made everyone quite happy, for once. Bertie had been even more relieved when Peter had promised to return in winter, possibly by mid-December, so that he would be able to be present for the Christmas season. It was not to be Peter’s last visit to Tangiers, but it would be the last extended stay, as far as he had declared to his cousin. Bertie believed him completely. Their correspondence was far more frequent than it had been in the previous two years of Bertie’s role as agent, in spite of the difficulties of getting a message to and from North Africa.

That same correspondence was the reason why Bertie was in London in May. Peter had requested that he should take care of some business with the lawyer, Mr Bell, and Bertie had complied. He took the opportunity to check in on Hexham House, insuring that everything in the London residence was up to standards and functioning as it should be, without undue wastes and unfaithful servants who took the opportunity given by their employer’s prolonged absence to profit from Peter’s generosity. He took a chance to meet some of his old Army friends as he was in London, though he had not kept in contact with them quite as rigorously as he ought to have, but on his last day in town he had no occupation, so he took a walk in Kensington Gardens first, and then had a look around in the City to find some books – a cottage on the outskirts of a small village in Northumberland was not exactly the prime haven for contemporary literary production. There, through a hand of fate he had stopped hoping for, he saw the woman he could not truly have erased completely from his mind had he lived to be a hundred without ever laying eyes on her again.

“Lady Edith Crawley?” He asked, before reason could fully take control of his mouth to dictate what sounds he released. The woman now in front of him stopped, and though he was as certain of her identity as he was of his, he acted as if he might have been mistaken. “It is you, isn’t it?”

There was an irregular beating to his heart he could feel reverberate through his body that made his ears feel muffled, as if covered with a cushion. There was only her in front of him, and the absolute fear of losing her if he didn’t seize this one, clear opportunity. Fate might have intervened again in his favour, but he had no reason to hope it would in future; whatever happened next would be on him – his responsibility, his own making. He felt very much like he had in battle, with a turmoil inside of him quenched only by the knowledge that one wrong breath would be his undoing. And though he did stutter, he managed to ask her out for drinks after all; it wasn’t dinner, but he had wanted to make it as easy as possible for her to agree to the meeting in the end; considering how busy she had sounded, he had preferred not to push her for too much. He had a train to catch in the morning which he could not escape, but this he would not miss.

She had had a vague recollection of him, and the short conversation they shared enabled him to get a deeper insight on matters she had previously shared only in vague details. But that would be something he’d understand later, not in that instant, when all there was for him was the colour of her eyes and the sound of her voice, which he had forgotten and was now music to his ears. He would think back and see that that moment had signified his passage to a transitional, liminal phase of their acquaintanceship, where he had had to wait in a state of inaction fraught with possibilities.

He moved away from her sight quickly, retreating behind a wall and leaning on its side, taking a minute to breathe. They were going to see each other that evening. The magnitude of those events fell upon him like a house of bricks, and he had to take long, steadying breaths to calm his racing heart. He tried to think of what his mother would say if she were to see him now, and laughed at himself and his absolute lack of presence of mind. This would not do; if he fell apart whenever he saw her, he would have a hard time courting her without looking like a buffoon. He moved away from the wall and started walking, thinking that a contemplative pause was all he needed to pull himself together.

He took a stroll around the block; he had no other plans for the day and he would have to be at _Rules_ in just about three hours. He had no evening clothes to wear, unfortunately, having come unprepared for such an occasion, and the suit he was wearing that day was the best and cleanest one he had with him. What this all amounted to was three hours of nothing to do. He needed to calm his nerves, though, and aside from that, he should regain perspective on how to best behave. He was acting like a boy with his first crush, a bumbling mass of nerves spouting useless pleasantries which would make him less than appealing to a woman who ran a magazine and had taken up a ward for herself.

Bertie had remembered the fact that her family had one, but clearly in the months since they had last seen each other, Lady Edith had grown more attached to the girl than the rest of her family, explaining why she would now use the adjective _my_ , rather than a collective _our_. The correction had come a bit too late, reluctantly even, and though she had made it, the sentiment in her voice had betrayed an affection beyond measure, which Bertie had already spied at Brancaster. If he remembered correctly, both her sister and her brother-in-law had children of their own, which would go a long way towards explaining why Lady Edith had grown fonder of this girl, Marigold, than the other members of her family had – Bertie supposed it was easier to devote one’s love to one’s own child than to one taken as a ward. He had no notions of parenthood beyond those glimpsed in the company of Harry and his children, the only kids Bertie had ever let himself grow attached to. But one thing he had always believed to be certain, and that was that he wanted children of his own. Had he been a Lord without a wife, he might have considered the road taken by Lady Edith himself. With his dubious income, however, he struggled to think of the life he would condemn an adopted child to. Sure, the money he made was more than enough to care for himself and enjoy some of the pleasures of life, but he would want any child of his to have opportunities much grander than the ones he himself had as a child. He loved his father greatly, and they had never been poor, but Bertie had never allowed himself to think he could go to university because that would have been too much stress on his parents’ funds. What would be the point of adopting someone when he could not provide the same kind of education he had always secretly aspired to, and when he had no maternal figure to provide to said child beyond that of his own mother?

The Crawleys had had a much different choice ahead of them; they lived in a castle, they had two children already and a house full of people ready to care for a little girl. They were providing a stable environment for the girl to grow up into, much unlike the one Bertie had to his name for the time being. He had an honest work and a determination for being the best father a child could ever hope for, but he wanted a wife to have that with because, deep inside, he was scared of failing if left on his own.

Thoughts of family so close to his meeting Lady Edith again, of course, were a bit of an acceleration on things, as if wanting to start a race just a hundred yards before its finish line, but they did him good. His mother always said Bertie should never be careless about a relationship, that knowing what he wanted was as important as the character of the woman he was courting. Bertie had had little chance to court anyone, but it was true that he did believe he could never pursue a romantic entanglement with someone who didn’t share his ambitions for the future. He didn’t have many of those, of course. Indeed, he would be open to compromises on a number of things, not the least of which was his occupation; he might not be great at re-inventing himself, but he was very adaptable, and though he was a countryman at heart, if city life was the price he had to pay to marry the woman he loved, he would take it without regret. What he would never compromise on were his morals and his wishes for love and family. He had grown loved and cherished by his parents – though his mother had always been cold and stern in her demeanour –, and it would have been easy to take that for granted, but constant contact with the higher ranks of the aristocracy, primarily the one with Peter, had taught him that parental love was not a given, and though it was a right of every child, it was in no way a gift everyone could enjoy. However much he disliked Adele Graham, he had no trouble recognising that she was a product of her parents’ interests rather than their love. She had grown with the express purpose of being Marchioness of Hexham; she had never been a child, rather a means to a goal. And Bertie knew this to be the truth rather than his own view on things because unlike her, her younger sister had never displayed the same behaviour Adele had – not towards Bertie, and not towards Peter himself. This was something Bertie would never allow.

Knowing what he wished and reflecting upon it were just the things Bertie had not known he needed to calm his nerves. He would stop being hopelessly aggravating in his infatuation and start presenting to the woman he wanted to impress all the better qualities he possessed, the ones he used in his day-to-day life but had thus far foregone in the presence of Lady Edith.

He walked back to Hexham House, to let the small staff that remained there in his cousin’s prolonged absence know that he would not be home for dinner and that they should not wait up for him. He had a set of keys and he was no great lord they should fawn over. Whether or not Lady Edith accepted to progress their drinks to dinner, he was not intent on coming home for the meal; he’d be too disappointed in her refusal to hide it, and he would rather walk it off if it came to that. With one quick look at his luggage, Bertie was again out the door and heading for _Rules_ , where his meeting had been set.

He arrived with some advance, just to make sure that his attire and their intention of having a drink at the bar would not be frowned upon. He ordered a drink for himself, hoping that alcohol would give him enough confidence to wait for Lady Edith to show up, even when he started doubting her arrival. He had a bare minimum of it left in the glass when she did arrive. He wasn’t at all reassured by her quick entrance and the fact that she had not removed her coat. But he was determined, and so he followed her into her realm, and did as much as possible to be with her without being in her way, not caring about the looks of puzzlement of her staff. He used what knowledge he had of women’s interests – gleaned from overheard conversations at parties Peter had forced him to attend – to give his input on matters he had never thought he would give a second’s attention, and mostly took over Lady Edith’s secretary’s role of carrying and fetching. Better the young woman be left free to help Lady Edith with the newspaper, when she at the very least knew the basics of it, than he make himself a hindrance by fumbling around, figuring what and how to complete simple tasks.

By the end of it, he felt happier than he might have been had the crisis not occurred, had he managed to convince Lady Edith Crawley, second daughter of the Earl of Grantham, that he, the lowly agent of an estate meant for people other than himself, was worth spending a dinner with. The pleasure he had felt at Brancaster conversing and dancing with her was still fresh in his mind, but this, _this_ was what made him feel that he had known part of her truly for the first time. Words conveyed tales, facial and body expressions could convey emotions, but a misadventure of this kind was what conveyed the true measure of a person. Bertie had thought himself in love before, but he realised now that what he had felt could not have been love at all. No, because as he awkwardly circled her at four in the morning, alternately sitting and standing in her shadow, he realised he had only now started falling for her, for the person she truly was.

As they finished the last of the coffee, alone in the editor’s office, Bertie realised that while he had to go back to Hexham House to retrieve his luggage before he left, he had no desire to be parted from her, that he could find himself willing to lose the first train of his life if this bubble of tired contentedness could just withstand the passage of time and envelop the two of them that much longer. Still, he knew it wasn’t to be, not when she looked so tired in front of him, despite the coffee and the adrenaline which had fuelled her mad rush to get this latest issue of her magazine published.

“I suppose you will need to catch some sleep before you can tackle finding an editor,” he said, freely allowing the regret he felt inside to colour his voice.

“I suppose so, yes. I’m truly sorry, though,” she said, and he felt it too. “I ruined your evening and now I cannot even thank you properly for your help.”

“Far from it,” Bertie said, honest to the core. “It was fun to try my hand at this. I’m frightfully lacking in artistic flair, so this was a very challenging activity to participate in. I doubt, however pleasant a dinner we might have had, it would have quite compared to this.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t a total disappointment,” she replied, effectively deflecting the obvious compliment he had paid her. “I’d suggest we do it again, but I’m afraid once in a lifetime is enough even for me.”

Bertie smiled broadly. “Quite.” He took a deep breath as he replaced his coffee cup on the tray, and hers along with it. “Would it be presumptuous of me to ask whether I could accompany you back to your house?” It was a chance, but he wanted to spend as much time as possible with her.

“I’m afraid when I heard there was a crisis, I phoned my aunt to ask asylum should I come in at an unreasonable hour, and that’s a half an hour walk from here. I didn’t want to find myself in need of thinking about breakfast or lunch when I went back to my flat.”

“You want to take a taxi, of course,” Bertie said, his heart falling a bit at that.

“No, what I meant to say was that I didn’t think you’d care for such a long walk.”

“If you can handle it, I dare say I would very much. Only, I don’t get the chance to be in London often enough not to make use of the time I have here.” He was being too bold by half, and his mother would scold him for it if she knew, but he had not been lying; he was uncertain of how often he was going to be able to come to London, in spite of his desires – and even then, Lady Edith had just told him she didn’t wish to live in London yet, if at all. Aside from hoping for an invitation to Yorkshire, which would certainly not come if he left her now, there was little he could do to convince her to give him the time of day. He would swim across the Thames if it would give him an extra chance with her.

“If you’re sure.”

He smiled, feeling his chest swell with rising happiness. “I am.”

They got dressed and were out of the door before too long, with Edith leading the way. She was tired, he could tell, but he kept up a steady stream of conversation, wanting to know more about her, certainly, but also in a desire to share parts of himself with her. He told her about his life as an agent, thinking that if she had shared her work with him, that would be a good place to start, and she appeared genuinely interested in his work. Indeed, she was more knowledgeable about farming and cattle than he had ever imagined she would. “How come you know so much about it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

There was a pause, which signified she might mind, really, but before he could reassure her that there was no need to answer, she spoke. “It started during the war, I suppose. My late sister, Sybil, decided to go into nursing to be useful and not feel like she wasn’t contributing anything to the war effort.” There was a fondness in her voice, that spoke of great love as well as enormous grief. “She was always looking for something to do to feel useful. I wasn’t like that, of course, I didn’t have half the courage Sybil displayed on a daily basis, but I did feel the need to find something for myself as well.

“At first, I asked my brother-in-law, who was the chauffeur at the time, to give me some lessons. I took to it, though probably I had a higher opinion of my capabilities than I ought to have had,” she smiled fondly, as if talking about something that had happened half a century before, rather than just a decade ago. Indeed, Lady Edith spoke of her younger self as if it were another person entirely. Bertie supposed the War had changed all who had lived through it, and those who had remained the same probably weren’t really worth knowing. Not to him, at least. “As more and more men got called to the front, farmers began to lose their hands. One day, I decided to help one of them out. It started with riding a tractor to remove a tree, and it evolved into something more.”

“It sounds purposeful.”

“I don’t think I was doing it to help out as much as I was doing it to feel needed or wanted.”

Bertie didn’t know her well enough to ask more about that, about how a young woman surrounded by her family could possibly feel anything less than wanted, but one look at her consolidated the knowledge that whatever her reasons for feeling that way, they weren’t the whims of a spoiled girl. “It doesn’t take away the fact that you helped some people who needed it.”

She smiled bitterly but didn’t retort. “After that, I suppose my interest expanded because of a suitor. If that doesn’t sound too shallow a reason.”

“I was hired by Lord Hexham out of pity,” Bertie declared, despite the bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of any man who wasn’t himself spending time with her, however silly that feeling was. “I am ill equipped to throw stones at anyone.”

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short, though. I know managing estates is not at all simple; Downton is half the size I’d imagine Brancaster is, and I know how difficult that is to maintain.”

Bertie tipped his hat in sign of thanks. “So, what happened with this suitor of yours that made you interested in farming?”

“It ended at the altar,” she said. “Quite literally. Papa led me down the aisle and he left me there.”

Bertie wasn’t sorry that she was unspoken for, but that must have been a nightmare. “I am sorry you had to go through that.”

“I was too, for a very long time. But now, I don’t think I am. Sorry for the awkwardness and the pain, certainly, but not for what it meant for me as a person. You see, I don’t think I would have ever had the chance to grow had it not been for that misfortune. Anthony was a dear man, but if I were to imagine myself with him now, I couldn’t bear it. I was a different person then, and I am quite certain that though he was right for me at the time – for who I was – he wouldn’t be now. It seems strange,” she added, “to think that the past, even the happy parts of it, would make me tremendously unhappy now.”

“I don’t think it is strange at all. If we don’t grow, then what’s the point of living? If all we are at forty is precisely who we wanted to be at four, have we really lived at all? Knowledge and history are bound to define us and our characters. If we don’t let them, then we are no more useful than gravel.”

She looked at him quite intently, then. And though the darkness of the night was broken by the street lamps, Bertie was strangely unsettled by the fact that he could not read her face. She was studying him, and he knew not if what she was seeing pleased her at all. “Those are quite lovely words.”

He smiled, as radiantly as he knew how. “I’m no writer, but I was told I was capable of producing intelligent thoughts. On occasion.” She laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. Not because it was especially melodic, but because it was her laugh, and he had been able to excite it. The fact that it came in one of the most silent hours of London, which was normally such a frightfully noisy city, did nothing to make it any less gorgeous.

He knew they had neared their destination when her step suddenly slowed. The sight of Belgrave Square and its magnificent houses made Bertie fear for his chances, but he decided to ignore his worries. If she never wanted to see him again, if his position and his prospects chased her away, then he would accept it, but it would have to be her decision; he was done thinking himself unsuitable for her, not when he was so determined to see her again.

“That’s me,” she said, when they were in front of the columns bearing the number 35. “Thank you for seeing me home. And for the support with the magazine, of course.”

“Thank you for indulging me despite how tired you so clearly are,” he retorted. “I had a lovely evening, and an even lovelier night. And I hope you will not consider me rude if I should write to you to keep in touch.”

She gave him a long look, before giving her assent. He stayed there until she was safely within the house, and then was about ready to collapse from the fatigue. Instead, he kept erect and breathed in the cold night air to keep himself alert and upright. Hexham House wasn’t frightfully far, and he could use another half hour of walking to dispel all needs of sleep until he was on the train for Northumberland later that day. He was utterly spent by the time he arrived at Hexham House, but he forced himself to have breakfast. Before he could even think about what to do with his free time, he elected to sit and start composing the letter he wanted to send to Lady Edith. He wouldn’t send the first rough draft, but he wanted to keep the sentiments of that night fresh in his mind while he wrote, for he wanted to be honest more than he wanted to be collected and respectful. This, he thought, was what he wanted to always be with her.


	6. 'T is not too late to seek a newer world (part III)

_13 May, 1925_

Bertie lingered in the doorstep, observing his mother as she cooked dinner for the two of them. He had crashed on the train, but the jarring movements had not let him rest for long, and he was quite tired indeed. One look at him, and his mother had told him they would have an early supper and then he could go to bed. She had asked him why he was so tired, and he had told her he needed to change before he even thought of having a normal conversation. He had offered his mother a cook, but she had preferred to use the money Bertie had been willing to spend to grow a small capital she might come to use in her older age, if she ever needed it. She was no Mrs Brennan, but she wasn’t half bad in the kitchen either. Bertie might not be in an advanced stage of courting, but the prospect of marriage had brought home the fact that he would have to abandon his mother to a lonely life if he were to marry. He might keep her close, but the fact was that with a cottage at his disposal and not much else, he could never keep her with him. He loved her very much, but he doubted any woman would put up with living with her mother-in-law in the house, and he didn’t think it right to even ask.

“Am I really that fascinating?”

Bertie smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” He took the necessary steps to enter the kitchen and sat himself down at the table. There was no point in using the proper dining table when he was so knackered and had been tempted to just wear his pyjamas and be done with decorum. Instead, he had kept his shirt, however badly rumpled it was. “I was a bit lost in my own thoughts, I suppose.”

“You look it, too.”

Bertie didn’t comment on the fact that his mother hadn’t even turned to look at him once. He had learnt long ago that women saw things men could never hope to gleam, and without necessarily using their eyes, too. “I think there’s something I ought to tell you.”

“You think?”

“Only it’s not a given and it’s not necessarily happening anywhere outside my own mind, but I still think I would like you to know.”

“Well, if you have to be so cryptic at least you should pay me the kindness of telling me whether it is good or bad news.”

Bertie smiled. “Good. Apocalyptic to you, probably, but good.” That caught her attention and she turned around for a short while to take him in. She made to sit down, but he decided to join her at the stove instead, taking the ladle from her hands and stirring the stew in her place. “I asked a woman out for drinks, in London. Her name is Lady Edith Crawley, she’s the second daughter of the Earl of Grantham.”

His mother stilled altogether. “I should have been sitting down, after all.”

“I met her last year during the grouse season. Her second cousin married Lord Sinderby’s son and she and her family were at Brancaster when I was invited to shoot and dine.”

“You never said you had met anyone,” she said slowly, likely still taking in the situation.

“That’s because I never thought I’d meet her again. It didn’t seem right that I should write to her after such a short acquaintance. Especially not considering our respective positions.” He took a sip of the stew, tasting to see if it was ready, the colour and consistency of the bits of meat indicating as much. Content that he had been right in his assessment, he turned the fire off and took out the plates and cutlery to set the table. “But then I met her by chance as I was perusing books yesterday, and I asked her out for drinks.”

“By the looks of you, I’d say it went well,” she asked more than stated.

“She was late, came in, apologised, said she was in the middle of a crisis and had to work through the night. I imposed my services, until she thought me of a saviour rather than an intruder.”

“The daughter of an earl has a job?”

“She owns a magazine, and had a last-minute issue with her editor. He walked out and she… well, that’s not important.” He moved to serve them both a healthy portion of the stew and then sat with his mother to enjoy the meal. “The important part was that, despite having to work until nearly four in the morning, she consented to being escorted home on foot rather than taking a taxi, and then assured me that I wouldn’t be intruding if I were to write to her.”

“Well,” his mother said after a moment’s consideration. “Tell me more about her, then.”

Bertie smiled and eagerly complied. He went to bed early that night, but very much content indeed.

* * *

_15 May, 1925_

Bertie finished composing the letter two days later, the conversation with his mother having emboldened him to be a braver, more determined soul. The letter itself warranted no answer, but Bertie was determined to fix another stay in London to see her. He imagined that she couldn’t have found a suitable editor in the space of two days, and her return to Downton for the wedding meant she would probably be back in London the following week. He posted the letter to her home rather than to London, and began arranging his schedule so that he might run down to the City again in the following week without neglecting his duties at Brancaster.

_Dear Lady Edith,_

_I was decidedly too tired to truly express my enthusiasm at our time spent together in London. I should hope you are even as remotely fond of the memories of the night as I am. It is not every day that one learns while having (desperate, exhausting) fun. I felt it necessary to buy a copy of_ The Sketch _at the station, the idea of witnessing the fruit of our labour (yours and your staff’s infinitely more than mine) was rather too tempting. The vendor who sold it to me must have thought me a dandy, but I dare say it was quite worth it. You have a way with words that I could only glimpse at while you were working, you are as witty and entertaining in writing as you are in person, and I truly feel honoured to have been allowed a glimpse into that side of you._

_I hope your return to Downton was quite pleasant and that you will have a good time at the wedding tomorrow. I was very impressed by the way you talked of your butler, not many employers have such high regards for their servants. Then again, by the way everyone in the office was glad and ready to help you, I should have surmised that you are generally quite good with your employees, and should not have been surprised. I hope you will be able to find a suitable replacement for the editor position, and I shall look forward to hearing about the person you select._

_I dare not ask for a reply to this letter, for I know none is necessary, but I will endeavour to write again when next I’m in London in hopes that you will be there also, so that we might actually find ourselves in the position of really sharing that dinner, if you will accept._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Bertie Pelham_

Bertie posted the letter shortly before lunch, and then headed to the hospital, where he knew Harry would be having his break. He didn’t necessarily want to talk about Lady Edith, though he knew the topic would come up, but he had been neglecting his best friend in the past few days, and he had no time to spare during the following week (certainly not in the intervening days).

He met him just as Harry was about to head to the pub for a bite, and they shared a meal together. After having been made the recipient of a comprehensive exploration of Harry’s innermost frustrations with the bureaucracy of being a doctor, which worked Harry into a state of frenzy that Bertie knew to mitigate with inquiries after Ada and the children, Harry’s attention returned to the same plane of existence as that of other, less neurotic, human beings.

“Sorry, the stress this week has made me a bit tetchy. I have a patient whose family is hell-bent on ruining my life, and I got carried away.”

“Do you feel better, at least?”

“Quite. Only I didn’t wish to bring all of this home, and it’s worsened my mood to the point that I’ve made enemies with the nurses as well.”

“It is quite all right,” Bertie reassured him. “As long as you are better now, I’m glad I could help. Especially when all I had to do for it was staying mostly silent for a good half hour.”

Harry smiled as he took a long gulp of cider. “Now, tell me a bit about you. You were in London recently?”

“I had to take care of some business with the lawyer, yes. I managed to check in with some old Army acquaintances too. Peter had told me I would have to stay there for three or four days, and in the end I had finished my business by the second day, so I did a bit of exploring. I went on a museum spree, and then remembered I could do with a couple more books. Oh,” Bertie said as he rummaged through the bag in which he kept all of his papers for a book he had nearly forgotten he had intended to give Harry. “I found a copy of _The Dark Frigate_ for George, incidentally. I know his birthday is in two weeks, but I am sure I will forget about the book if I don’t give it to you now, and Ada will want to know she doesn’t need to look for something else.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Bertie declared with nonchalance. “He’s my godson, and the book is a second-hand edition, so it was really not a big expense.”

Harry tried to stare him down, but failed, and gave up instead. “I wish the kids’ godmothers were as kind as you. Most of the time they forget their nephews even have birthdays and Ada and I have to make up for it.”

“I always said you married the only good sister of that family.”

After a moment of silence, when Harry placed the book carefully in his own work bag, he turned his attention back to Bertie’s London’s visit. “Did you get up to much other than museum visits?”

Bertie gave him a look, and Harry’s attention was suddenly captivated. “Do you remember the woman I told you about some months back?”

“The daughter of the Earl of something?”

“Grantham. Lady Edith Crawley, yes. I met her by chance, and I took a gamble.” Bertie proceeded to give a succinct recount of their meeting and of the ensuing events, much to Harry’s delight. His friend appeared to be truly enthusiastic for him, and Bertie was glad to have someone who didn’t see all the issues of a union so discordant to discuss it with.

“You should go back to London next week,” Harry declared. “She is unlikely to have already found her editor, and until she does, she must be in London to oversee the selection process as well as the publication. Then you can write to her asking if she’ll be there at all. Just find a reason why you should be in London.”

“Don’t you think it would be too soon?”

“Not at all. Write while you’re still fresh in her mind and you’ll see, she will certainly meet you. And, look, you don’t necessarily have to actually go to London if she says she will be busy, either. Just, you know, be prepared.” Harry glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Now, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you and go back to work, but promise me you’ll write to her, and let me know how it goes.”

“I will.”

They split their bill and separated, Bertie heading to his car to drive out into the farms. Mr Elliot had had issues with some of his equipment, and Bertie wanted to check whether or not the old man was actually truly dealing with faulty machinery, or if his age was to fault instead.

No matter what Harry’s suggestion had been, Bertie didn’t feel it proper to send a message quite so soon after his first letter. If he gave her no chance to write back at all he would appear too eager, and though he actually was feeling excessively keen on seeing her again, he had enough manners to wait a week more, at least. He would wretchedly await her response, and hope her weekend wasn’t so busy that she would forego to contact him at all.

* * *

_19 May, 1925_

When he arrived home that evening, he was utterly exhausted. Mr Elliot had turned out to be right in faulting the equipment for his problems, and an attentive look into the matter had proven that the dealer had tried to swindle money from Bertie by selling him faulty tractors. Bertie’s meticulosity meant that he had a receipt from the dealer, and instead of looking for him with threats to bring him out of business, Bertie had elected to ensure the man was caught red-handed in his attempts at knavery. He had gone to the police to denounce him first thing, and then had suggested he organised another meeting with the man with the pretence of wanting to buy other equipment. He had hoped the man was greedy enough to take the bait, and his instincts had been rewarded. He had shown up to the meeting and the police had arrested him. The whole matter, of course, had cost Bertie a considerable amount of time, and though he had fixed the immediate issue, the problem remained where the farming equipment was concerned. He had settled a meeting with another dealer and had done his best to properly analyse the tractor to ensure it wasn’t faulty or defective, a task which had required him to get a manual on tractors to ensure he wasn’t buying another hoax.

Bertie hadn’t properly slept in three days, and had only had time to eat a small sandwich on the go for lunch on both days, skipping dinner altogether the previous evening when he had arrived home to find that his mother had fallen asleep on the couch. He had woken her to send her to bed and had collapsed in his room soon thereafter, only to wake up before dawn to collect the mail he had left unread the previous day and go into town to look up the new tractor.

As he made his way home at the end of the day, Bertie truly felt the weight of his responsibilities heavily on his shoulders. He might be efficient and organised, but he was no machine, he needed more than just fuel and compatible parts to function. One look at him, and his mother’s eyes filled with both sternness and a great deal of compassion. “Before you lecture me, I need to eat something and wash. Not necessarily in this order.”

She let him go to the bathroom as she dealt with dinner, and by the time he was done, wearing his nightgown on top of regular trousers and his pyjama shirt, she had a delicious shepherd pie waiting for him. It was like Christmas morning when he was young, at least as far as his enthusiasm was concerned.

“You shouldn’t work yourself so hard, Bertie,” she cautioned him when he was halfway through his plate. “It’s not good for you.”

“I’ve handled worse,” he tried to reassure her. The look she gave him was not really unexpected as much as it was too much for Bertie. He should have known that she would not have taken kindly to him minimalizing the extent of his work by oblique references to his time in the Army. But he was horribly tired, and his brain was at a stage between being overly crowded by newly-acquired knowledge and absolutely devoid of any capacity to function at all. “It’s my job.” It was his last attempt at mitigating the circumstances. It didn’t work.

“Your work is to run the estate, not to run yourself into the ground. If you need some help, you should have it. Your father did that for Mr Stokes, the last two years. And before that, Mr Stokes had had Cousin William to rely on, as well.”

“Don’t start, Mother. I don’t have the strength to argue about Peter with you.”

“You are running his kingdom, while all he does is spend money in Tangiers, wasting away the hard fruit of your labour on depravities–”

“Stop!” Bertie had had enough on his plate to deal with in the past few days not to be able to endure his mother’s endless stream of complaints about Peter. “I said not to start, Mother. Peter gave me a job when he had no obligation to do so, and he is allowing us to live in this cottage without having to worry about any expense, in spite of the fact that the land could be given to a farmer. We are here at his leisure, and I shall thank you to remember it in the future. You do not approve of him, and though I am afraid I will not be able to change your opinion of him, I will not keep quiet while you speak ill of him.” The strength of his outburst had consumed the last of his energy, and he found himself unable to even eat.

“I’m sorry,” his mother conceded once he abandoned the fork on the plate. “I did not mean to upset you. Please, eat, you need your strength.”

“I can’t swallow another bite, I’m afraid. Keep it for tomorrow, though, it was delicious.”

His mother nodded, and proceeded to finish her dinner with more haste than was normally her habit, knowing he wouldn’t get up before she was also finished.

“Oh!” She said, just as Bertie had been about to retreat to his room. “I almost forgot. Amongst your mail, there was a letter that came in what I thought a woman’s handwriting. I’m sure it will keep for tomorrow, if you so wish, but maybe it will cheer you up before you turn in.”

A flash of hope reignited Bertie’s nearly extinguished dregs of vigour. He went to fish for the letter and found that he recognised the handwriting indeed as Lady Edith’s. He had spied it while at her office, and was entirely too fond of her to have forgotten its every nuance. He headed to his room, and closed the door behind himself, lighting the candle-lamp on his bedside table, forgetting to change out of his trousers even as he removed his nightgown, and tucked himself into bed, beneath the warmth embrace of the covers.

_Dear Bertie,_

_Rest assured that I shall not forget my night of terror for a long time to come. Despite your continuous profusion of self-effacing words, I do assure you that I consider you to be a modern knight in shining armour. Though I struggle to reconcile the associated image of a damsel in distress with my own role in events. I fear, at my age, I am less inclined to accept the simple nature of fairy tales to be quite adaptable to my life. As for buying a copy of_ The Sketch _, far from condemning your choice, I shall confess I have half a mind to frame that particular edition myself, as the proof of my evolution. I am certainly quite vain enough to keep a copy of the first article I ever wrote in my bedside table and to have brought home the maquette of the fruit of our labour to show to my family._

_The wedding was a success (and I came back to Downton to find I had escaped no small amount of drama centring around it, too), and was compounded by the happiness of Tom’s return. My brother-in-law, whom you met at Brancaster last year, had left us for America at the beginning of this year and had taken his daughter with him, leaving us rather sad. It seems he had missed us quite as much as we had missed him, and he came back just in time for the reception at the wedding._

_I suppose his return is why I took so long in writing an answer, and the reason why I have yet to properly tackle the issue of finding an editor. I will set up meetings soon, however, probably by next week – I have managed to oversee this week’s number from home, but I should not like to do it again._

_Best wishes,_

_Edith Crawley_

_P.S. Please, do drop the title, it makes me feel like we are on uneven ground._

He didn’t know how many times he reread the letter, only that he had enough presence of mind to turn the light off when his eyes could no longer remain opened. At any rate, when he woke up the next morning, the letter resting on top of his chest, he could neither help the smile on his face, nor the urge to read it one more time.

* * *

_23 May, 1925_

His routine had settled down to something reasonable once more. He had taken a whole morning to recuperate and to settle things with his mother. He had then taken care of the correspondence he had neglected for the past days, which revolved entirely around the estate. By Saturday, he had regained enough stability in his routine that he felt like he could finally answer the letter Lady Edith had sent his way, which he had shamelessly carried in his breast pocket for the previous four days. She had mentioned she would be in London the following week, and he had decided to fit his own visit accordingly. He would take the train on Tuesday morning, at the earliest, since George’s birthday was that Monday and he did not wish to be absent for it. He arranged all his papers for London, and posted the letter late on Saturday evening, knowing Edith – the name sounding foreign when not accompanied by her title, but oh so sweet – was unlikely to receive it before Monday morning.

_Dear Edith,_

_You will think me impatient and probably impertinent, but a sudden business meeting has meant that I will be in London next week also. Since I remember your quest to find an editor for your magazine, I wondered whether you would be down in the same dates as I. I would very much like the opportunity to see you again, possibly in the daylight. As I imagine you will be quite busy, I thought of a stroll in a park for an early afternoon break to ease the stress that you must be under._

_I will be in London from Tuesday to Thursday of this coming week, and hope you can meet me at that time. At any rate, please do let me know of your future plans._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Bertie Pelham_

And now, he waited.


	7. Sweeter manners, purer laws (part I)

_27 May, 1925_

Edith had accepted his invitation, and he had been terribly glad for it. She had suggested Wednesday would work perfectly for her schedule, since that was when the magazine came out, and when she had the least amount of stress on her shoulders. He had managed to entice her to a walk in Hampton Court Palace’s gardens. They had taken the bus and he had dared hold her steady when the bus had started and she had not yet reached a seat. He had felt terribly daring, but she had not shied away from his touch, though he had not quite seen the same trepidation he had felt inside mirrored in her attitude after it.

They had talked and talked, walking slowly, as he spent more time looking at her than he did looking at the beauty surrounding them. She didn’t ask to sit down, and he didn’t suggest it, content to indulge in her desire to keep moving. She told him about her life – about how she had come to inherit the magazine and her London flat from a man she had been unofficially engaged to, who had died in Germany, and about her time spent at Downton, how she liked the country life but knew in her heart she would have to leave sooner rather than later. She spoke of things he wasn’t sure she realised were more revealing than the simple facts they were relating. He saw, in her, a woman who had been raised to forget her own worth, who was treated by her family wholly unfairly. He had not particularly formed an opinion on Lady Mary, but he knew himself enough to realise that he admired infinitely more Edith than he did her sister. It took a kind of strength that was not simple to garner, in order for Edith to overcome the secondary role in which she had been cast since birth to become successful as she was. He could not imagine getting over her, if she were to break his heart, and here she was, standing on her own two feet after she had been jilted at the altar by one man, and had lost another before they had even had the chance to enjoy the union of marriage, a man who must have loved her intensely to make her the sole heir to his fortune before they had even been publicly engaged.

She also spoke of Tom, her brother-in-law, with whom she appeared to enjoy a very good relationship, and he inquired after her niece and nephew, and the little girl the family had taken up as a ward, Marigold. There was an overall feeling that Edith saw herself as the spectator to her family’s life, the person on the side-lines who watched events unfold and commentated on, rather than affected them, though not for lack of trying. Bertie didn’t really understand, couldn’t see how a woman who was so fully in control of her life couldn’t quite get a word in edgewise when she was with her family. He might usually choose not to argue with his mother, but when he felt strongly about a cause, he had no compulsion over telling her as much, of voicing his opinion and acting in the manner he saw fit. All of this amounted to one simple fact: he was curious about Edith, curious enough to wish to know everything about her and then some more, but finally she turned towards him to ask him about his life.

He told her of his father, of growing up to admire this man that was twice as big as the world in his eyes, of the immense shadow cast upon his infancy by the close relationship between Father and Cousin William, which had morphed into a gentle shade as Bertie himself had been led one, two, three, and then countless times at Brancaster, to play with Peter and all the aristocratic children he could never truly consider his peers. How that feeling of aloofness had been what led him to the Army, more than his father’s own military career. How the Army had made him find his own way, the desperate feeling of belonging having been quenched in the rigour of military discipline and the chain of command. He didn’t tell her, though, that he had felt securer in the trenches during the War than he had upon his return home – he would, probably, but not on a day where even her pain at the loss of a man she loved had been portrayed in a good light. They were getting to know each other still, and a part of him wished to leave something behind for her to want to discover, something that might lead her to seek him out again, to find him interesting when everyone he knew thought him boring and dull, unable to hold a conversation that wasn’t about business or farming. It was what consumed most of his days, that much was true, but there was much more to him he wished to convey, something he only reserved for those rare few who bothered listening.

He did tell her about Peter, though not more than a passing review, needing someone who appreciated his cousin in his corner. There was no hope for Mother to ever look at Peter with friendly eyes, and even Harry had expressed his puzzlement at Bertie’s attachment to his cousin. They didn’t – couldn’t – understand, but a part of him wished at least Edith would, when – _if ever_ – they met. It was the first time he had ever entertained the thought of the two of them meeting, yet he knew Peter would love her immensely, at any rate. Peter would admire her modernity, her entrepreneurship, and how very gallantly she wore the mantle of command when she bothered wearing it. But he would love her kindness and her self-effacing manner, her dedication to her role of aunt and guardian, her ability to talk about literature with some sense of knowledge, rather than with the empty words of someone who pretended to speak about matters they didn’t know the least bit about. And a part of him, a very big part of him, hoped that meeting Peter would help Edith see a side of Bertie that people rarely observed, the side that made him look like the heir to a marquess, though one without any wish to inherit. It wasn’t that Bertie wished Edith to see him as a grand lord in the making, quite the opposite; he just hoped that she could see how very much suited he would be for it, but how very much more he was for a simpler life, one where he could dedicate all the authority held within him to safekeep and nurture the family he so desperately wished to build. Aside from his mother, who was biased and still thought she could control him despite how old Bertie was, Peter was the only other living person who truly saw that potential in him. Not even Harry, who had seen Bertie with all four children, thought him capable of that particular type of firmness.

When Edith suggested they spend the evening together as well, Bertie sensed his chest constrict at the affection he felt for her. He was going to make dinner reservations somewhere she might enjoy, somewhere his account wouldn’t thank him for the next morning. For her, it would be worth it. Remembering their first (and so far, only real) evening spent together, he made sure to have reservations somewhere they could enjoy a dance; he had felt robbed of the chance to spend an entire evening in her arms at Brancaster, and wanted to make up for that, especially if his first test of strength would be to evaluate her former man’s flat. He felt the shadow of this honourable man upon him, eclipsing the little ray of light he had managed to cast upon himself, and the dreaded feeling of needing to overcome the memory of a man who could, in death, do no wrong, was more than a passing concern.

He had enough time to prepare, of course, chiefly because his afternoon, unlike hers, was spectacularly free of engagements. There was little for him to do beyond trying to concoct business about Hexham House. He could see if he could manage to keep the staff on their toes, but the truth was there was little that the minimal staff at Hexham House had to prove in order to convince him of their value and trustworthiness. He had sprung on them more than one unexpected visit and they had never acted in any way like they were being caught off-guard; they had never even been peaked for his appropriation of a copy of the house keys. Indeed, aside from the fact that they might not be as pompous as the staff at Brancaster, Bertie could not find a single fault with them.

In the end, he decided that his time would be better spent doing something relaxing for himself. As soon as he set the dinner reservations, he went out again, headed for a florist. He had no reference to know which flowers she preferred, but she had commented on how much she enjoyed to see the delphinium grow, standing tall and blooming from bottom to top. Bertie didn’t know much about flowers, but he knew to recognise one when he had seen it before. Though it wasn’t as easy as he had hoped to find the flower in question, he did manage to find it after some attentive research.

After his quest had been accomplished, he went back to the house to get properly dressed; no simple suit for him on this particular evening. The dinner, hopefully, would be a surprise to her. He had elected to go to her flat because she had asked him to, and because, in the end, it would be better to face the ghost of her former love sooner rather than later, when he wasn’t nearly as emotionally involved as he imagined himself to be in the weeks to come – not that he didn’t spend all of his free time thinking about her, already, but still…

She gave him a radiant smile when he presented her with the flowers, and held his hand as she thanked him for the thoughtful gift. “Come in,” she said even as she retreated back into the flat. He did as he was bidden, and waited patiently for her to get a vase in which to put the delphinium, and then went to place it into her room. He elected not to follow her there; his comment earlier that day about her invitation sounding a bit too forward had been in jest, but he knew what his mother would say to the idea of knowing him in a woman’s flat unchaperoned, and decided that he would better keep some of the social boundaries up, at least.

“Would you like a drink?” She asked when she was back.

He agreed and, this time, followed her a little more closely as she prepared the drinks. “I got us dinner reservations at the _Café de Paris_ ,” he said, as she handled the alcohol. “Hopefully that makes up for my blunder last time.”

“As I remember correctly,” she objected, “last time I was entirely to blame for the fact we didn’t share a meal.”

She handed him his drink and he took it gladly. “Well, I’m still glad you showed up at all. Now show me this flat of yours, otherwise I’ll start thinking you weren’t genuine when you wished for my opinion.”

It was a beautiful flat, he had to give her that – Michael Gregson certainly hadn’t lacked taste. Having said that, Bertie was frightfully aware of how little he could see himself living in such a place. His hearth was entirely settled in the countryside, and he had to admit to himself, if not to her, that his cottage was much more to his preference than this particular display of modern interiors and art. More than anything, it brought home the fact that he was nothing like the man who had furbished it, and if Edith had a future similar to her flat in mind for herself, Bertie struggled to see how he could ever measure up to it.

Despite the obvious disparity in his prospects and hers, however, Bertie was determined, and knew himself well enough to understand that his feelings for Edith were there to stay, and that he would regret it for his entire life if he didn’t at least try to overcome the obvious differences. After all, she had proven his fears an exaggeration on multiple occasions, so he considered worth it to try and make a relationship out of this.

As she spoke of her intention of spending more time in London and about the dinner she had to look forward to at home, even as he interacted with her, Bertie felt the mounting need to release all of the tension that had been bubbling inside of him since he had knocked on her door to gain entrance in the flat. Eventually, the words he could concoct to appear suave became too little, and all he could do, as she turned towards him, was lean down for a kiss.

* * *

Dinner was a much jollier deal for both of them; whatever glum her flat had cast on him had dissipated, and whatever had prompted her to act funnily after their kiss had swiftly followed in its steps, led away by the good food and the music. He was not too surprised to discover that she wouldn’t stop dancing, once they started. Edith looked dwarfed by the world, but if she just let herself forget about being part of it, she would be quite as adept at anything as she thought herself unsuited for it. The fact that he was responsible for her smile and her ease, even if only marginally, meant to him more than he could have guessed, more than he ought to have believed, certainly.

“Thank you,” she said when they went to collect her overcoat.

He just looked at her with the eyes of a man in love, and smiled contentedly at her happiness.

He enticed her to walk back to her flat, instead of taking a taxi, wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, and hoping that the extra minutes would prove to be enough to sate him until he next met her. “I really had a lovely evening.”

“I’m glad. Because I’m hoping we could do this again sooner rather than later.”

“Will you be in London in the near future, then?” She asked.

“I have a meeting settled on the 9th of next month with a renter for the season. He’s been tremendously annoying, and I have half a mind to just tell him if he doesn’t like the conditions he can jolly well find somewhere else to shoot grouse, but the fact is, he’s interested in taking the last two weeks, which are never booked, and it would be a good thing for Brancaster. So, for the time being, I’m allowing myself to be dragged around and I’m enduring his endless rescheduling fit.”

“It doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“It isn’t, which is why I’m considering reducing the season entirely and finding alternate solutions. We have already decided to use the summer months for tours of the grounds and the least private rooms. We have some interesting displays, and while a day’s rent is quite higher than a day of visits, we can most often than not count on those. With children home from school, we think we can probably make it work.”

“Can anyone come to visit?” She asked, her eyes suddenly on his.

“As long as they get a ticket,” he answered with a smile, hoping to sound flirtatious rather than dense.

“And how much would a private tour of the grounds cost, just out of curiosity?”

“I don’t think private tours are in the plans, why? Are you interested?”

She turned her head as she walked purposely forward. “I might be. It really depends on where you’ll be at the time. I have the feeling your summer and autumn will be far busier, and your fickle excuses for being in London might dry up under the strain of your responsibilities.”

“Fickle?” He asked. “Was I really that transparent?”

“Just to my family, I suppose.”

“You’ve told them about me?” He asked, rather surprised. He had told his mother, of course, but he had only to gain from association with Edith, unlike she from him.

“You saved my magazine,” Edith said dismissively. “Of course I told them about meeting you. And then I really did see no reason why I shouldn’t have told them you wrote to arrange a meeting.”

“You make it sound like a business transaction.” He had no great delusions of grandeur, but he had rather hoped that she would be more appreciative of the time spent together, and certainly more receptive to his advances than to share them liberally with her family, who would certainly turn their noses at him – whatever role Tom Branson covered in the family. After all, he had no doubt about the fact that Lord and Lady Grantham had not been as receptive to Mr Branson in the beginning as they were now. Was it wrong of him to wish for a couple weeks of privacy, where their budding relationship had a chance to mature before it was obstructed by her family?

“I’m sorry,” she apologised sincerely, taking his hand in hers as she did so. “I didn’t mean it that way, of course. I just wasn’t sure of what your intentions were, when you first approached me, and I saw no reason why I should hide our acquaintance from them. And, to tell you the truth, I daresay I feel no reason not to tell them about us. I certainly feel no shame in wanting to spend more time with you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he hurried to correct her. “And I’ve told my mother about you, of course. I only meant that I imagine they’ll insist on wanting to meet me at one point.”

“They already have, just in case you forgot.”

“Your brother-in-law, maybe. I haven’t really spoken to any other member of your family, though. They have seen me, which is very different. Besides, I wasn’t courting you then.”

She made little attempt at hiding the smirk on her face. “Weren’t you?”

He blushed slightly, but not enough for her to notice in the dim lamp light. “I might have been trying to make a lasting impression, but you must credit me with some restraint.”

“A lot more than I could possibly have hoped for,” she replied, linking her hands to his arm and leaning against his shoulder with her head.

His heart beat so strongly in return, he was afraid it would break his sternum and come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's plenty of fanfictions out there who cast Michael in a bad light for reasons I could never understand. He was in a wretched position and ultimately sacrificed his life in order to have a chance to be with the woman he loved. And he did love Edith (or he wouldn't have left her his every earthly possession). Which is why that is precisely how I portrayed him here.


	8. Sweeter manners, purer laws (part II)

_2 June, 1925_

Bertie didn’t know how to stop thinking about her. After walking her home to her flat in London, Edith had allowed him to kiss her goodnight properly, and he had relished the taste of her lips on his for the entire night, as he laid in bed wishing he could be with her again the next day and the one after that. He had sent her a letter the next morning, which would probably arrive at Downton before she did, despite the fact that it made him look impatient. She had answered promptly herself, and Bertie had spent the whole of Friday building up the courage to take a step further. He loved to read her letters, and he didn’t dislike writing to her, but he did miss the sound of her voice terribly much. By midday, he had enough confidence in his chances to ask her permission to call her, something he might not have done before, but that he thought would be more reasonable than making up random days in which he could be in London. The estate was running smoothly, that much was true, but he couldn’t allow for it to be left to run on its own without supervision because of his need to be with a woman – no matter how much that woman was worth it.

Despite all of his reservations about meeting her family properly, if he could have gone to Yorkshire instead of having to go all the way to London, it would have probably given him a lot more freedom than the one he enjoyed right now. If he weren’t living in a cottage with his mother, he would be the one issuing the invitation himself, but alas that was not to be. She would fit in a guest bedroom, but he couldn’t very well invite her without extending the invitation to the rest of her family, and a cottage was no place for an earl and a countess, no matter how much Bertie wished it could be. He was certain that, had he asked Peter, his cousin would have insisted Bertie made use of Brancaster, but Bertie had too much pride for that.

He became slightly anxious on Saturday, when he heard nothing from her, and though Sunday there was no post, by Monday he was entirely too wired up to properly focus on his job without a conscious effort. By Tuesday morning, he started to think she had reconsidered her decision to allow him to court her and was entirely too saddened by the thought to hide it from his mother, so he took his lunch in a pub, before sneaking back in the afternoon.

Or, at least, attempting to sneak in. “A letter came from you. It’s from her.”

Of course, his mother recognised her handwriting as much as Bertie himself did.

_Dearest Bertie,_

_My apologies for the long wait. I am afraid we were rather taken these past few days. My father was gravely ill on Friday evening, and he was taken to the hospital, in need of an operation. His ulcer burst at dinner, and ever since, my mother, sister and I have been taking turns to be at his side in the hospital. I have only now found the time to write something down. I am terribly sorry if I am not as coherent as I would like, but the fear has not yet left me. We took him home a couple of hours ago, and he is now on bed rest for the immediate future._

_Call me in a week. Things will have settled by then, hopefully, and I will be able to form more than just the simplest of thoughts in my mind._

_Yours,_

_Edith_

“What is it?” His mother asked, her voice breaking through the fog of his thoughts.

Bertie surprised himself by being sitting; he had had no notion of moving from the place where he had opened the letter, but he must have, because he had been standing close to the desk beneath the window when he had opened it, and now he was sitting in the middle of the room. “Her father burst an ulcer. He’s had an operation, and now they have brought him home to convalesce.”

“That sounds rather serious.”

Bertie nodded absent-mindedly. He knew he had no right to intrude on the family moment, and not only because he wasn’t part of Edith’s family but because he didn’t know the Crawleys in the least – everything he knew came through tales of Edith. He hadn’t thought he’d mind that at all. Indeed, up until that moment, he had truly appreciated the possibility to get to know Edith far from her family, when she could be herself and so could he, unafraid of being under anyone’s close scrutiny. True, London was not the most private of places to enjoy a courtship, but at the very least they were far from the public eye, if for no other reason than because he was absolutely no one the peers or the papers would care about. But then it suddenly occurred to him that families like Edith’s were not at all like his. He loved and respected his mother, and he would never leave her to her own devices either, but he did imagine himself living in a different house than hers once he would be married; they were not a clan, unlike aristocratic families. And though Edith professed her need for independence, Bertie knew she liked Downton above London, though she enjoyed much more freedom in the latter and was drawn to it because of her need to find her own way in life, one that wasn’t dictated by her birth and her family. He decided that the next time they would meet, he would tell her he wanted to meet her family properly. After all, he was serious enough about her that he didn’t think he could do without in the end, so there was little point in delaying indefinitely.

* * *

_9 June, 1925_

Mr Anderson was clearly looking for prospective husbands for his daughter. His fortune was larger than his belly, and his proclivity for literally throwing money at every problem was not small. Bertie had had to rein in his dislike to settle the agreement. Mr Anderson’s daughter, Marilyn, who was with him at the meeting, was dressed to impress, though it was clear that it hadn’t been Bertie who had been the intended target of Miss Anderson’s efforts.

“I rather hoped to see Lord Hexham himself. Doesn’t he like to know who rents his castle?”

Bertie had merely managed to introduce himself before the question came. They weren’t even sitting yet. “He does, yes,” he replied politely. “Unfortunately, he is not in the country presently, and his business demands that he stay away for quite a while still, which is why he sent me in his stead. Let me assure you, however, that I have his full confidence.” Bertie indicated that they should take a seat, and it was then that he noticed Mr Anderson’s eyes catch the glint of his ring.

“You a college man, Mr Pelham?”

Bertie was struck with the notion that in America rings were solely given in restricted university circles rather than for links with the nobility, and that Mr Anderson’s American mind had not made him more inclined to believe Bertie was a peer. “I attended the military academy,” he replied, hoping that the honest answer would throw Mr Anderson off his scent.

The man nodded, and then turned his full attention back to the absent Peter. “And what is this business that keeps Lord Hexham away so much?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” Bertie answered pleasantly, but reservedly. He had no intention of speaking about Peter with this man who was clearly trying to find a way to attach his daughter to Bertie’s cousin.

“Well, it seems a bit of a pity that we won’t have a chance to meet him.”

Bertie smiled forcedly, knowing better than to take the bait, but also not wishing to antagonise the man. “I hope you won’t mind if I try to tackle the business at hand, but I’m afraid I have a rather busy schedule, and I should hate not to come to a pleasant conclusion to our acquaintance.”

“Right,” Mr Anderson said. “We’ve all got very busy lives. So then, this Brancaster Castle of yours, what does it come equipped with?”

“Brancaster is fully staffed; the butler, Mr Charlton, and the housekeeper, Mrs Oliver, are equipped to cater to your needs, and will be able to provide everything you need during your stay. Mrs Brennan, the cook, needs only to have a daily list of your intended meals to prepare them, even if they were to entail new recipes. As long as she gets the advance notice, she will be perfectly capable of preparing them.”

Mr Anderson nodded, apparently satisfied. “And what about the hunting?”

Bertie cringed internally, the difference between shooting and hunting all too clear in his mind. “Regardless of your level of familiarity with the shooting, our loaders are skilled and can provide any level of assistance you might require. Our guests usually bring their own guns, but we have some in case that is not possible; as long as you alert Mr Brown, the lead loader, of your needs, he will make sure you are fully equipped. Shooting days will be restricted, of course, but the gamekeeper will make sure you get enough of it.”

“And what if we have guests? Can we invite them to stay?”

“Yes,” Bertie confirmed. “We have a number of rooms that can be employed for guests. Of course, it would be kind to let Mrs Oliver know ahead of time so that she might arrange for their use, but other than that, you are perfectly welcome to invite whomever you wish. The only difference, obviously, would be with the expenses for food and drinks.”

Mr Anderson turned to the very matter of expenses thereafter, and Bertie couldn’t help but notice that his daughter looked wholly unimpressed and bored. It must have been a great disappointment to her when Peter had not been present. She didn’t say a word until her father requested to make use of the facilities, and even then, she didn’t look too enthusiastic about having to break her silence.

“Will you be around when we’re at Brancaster?”

“In the area, probably,” Bertie confirmed vaguely. “That really all depends on where I’m needed at the time. Of course, in case anything should happen, I will be reachable by telephone.”

“Oh. So, you’re not from London?”

“No. I come to London mostly for business. Have you been here long yourself?”

“Not really,” she said. “Daddy and I arrived in May. I’m here for the season, mostly. And then, I suppose we’ll see.”

“And are you finding it to your liking, so far?”

“Better than I had imagined,” she said, quite reluctantly. “The balls and the parties are quite nice. There’s a lot of dancing, for sure.”

“Yes,” Bertie smiled, “I do remember that quite well myself.”

Her eyes lit up in curiosity. “Oh? You’re practical with these things?”

“Not quite. Lord Hexham was very accurate in his descriptions, however. He thought it would lighten my foreign postings should I read of familiar recounts of home.”

Before she could reply to that, her father came back into the room, and Bertie managed to finalise the details of their arrangement. He would have to meet Mr Anderson again, this time in Mr Bell’s office, to sign the contract, but he was freed of his engagement at once, and thus decided not to even acknowledge the fact that Miss Anderson had tried to send subtle hints at her wishes to investigate him further. Had he not been hopelessly in love, he might have found it in himself to play with the uncouth woman more, dangling his relation with Peter more in an effort to let her know how snobbish she was being and how wrong that was, but the truth was he had no wish to indulge his British pride.

After seeing them out, Bertie wasted no time in taking the phone to call Edith. He had waited an entire week, and was now unable to contain his enthusiasm. He had refrained from sending a letter because he had thought she would need the respite more than his useless support, but that did not mean he had been happy about the decision.

He was answered by a voice as stern and gravelly as any he could have ever imagined, that of a man who identified himself as Mr Carson, Downton Abbey’s Butler, and Bertie had to wonder whether the judgement for his condition would extend to the servants as well as the family. He knew he wasn’t in a very strong position, but that a butler should sound displeased that a man who didn’t introduce himself as Lord Something or Other was calling on one of the Earl’s daughters was not the best of starts. Then again, he might have been projecting.

His thoughts were quickly cast aside by the sound of an all too familiar voice. “ _Hello?_ ”

“Hi,” he breathed in the phone. “I hope I’m not disturbing.”

“ _No, you most certainly aren’t._ ”

“How is your father faring?”

He heard a sigh on the other end of the line. “ _He gave us quite the scare, I’ll say that. But he’s doing much better now. Already he is roaring to be left out of his room, despite the doctor saying he needs more time._ ”

Bertie had gone to see Harry; he didn’t know much about burst ulcers, but his friend had reassured him that if the operation had gone well and Lord Grantham could be persuaded to stick to a strict diet he would pull through and not incur in any more troubles. “That’s a good sign, I’m sure. It means he’s recuperating well.”

“ _Thank you for saying that. You have no idea how glad it makes me feel._ ”

“Well, I don’t know that it does anything concrete, but as long as you do feel less burdened, I suppose I shan’t feel as useless as I have this past week.”

“ _Nonsense. There was nothing really anyone could have done, and I hate to say it, but in these cases, well-meaning intruders are usually more of a bother than anything else._ ”

Bertie hummed in agreement before speaking again. “How is your mother? It must have been especially hard on her.”

“ _She is fine now that Papa is home; she won’t relax around him, of course, but I think that’s to be expected. Mary and I were rather more worried about her than Papa once the operation came to a successful end. Then again, I suppose she might say the same about us if we were to ask her. But it’s behind us, now, luckily._ ”

“I’m very glad to hear that.”

“ _Tell me about your week, I’d like to hear something less troublesome for a change._ ”

Bertie doubted that she’d find much interest in his daily routine, but complied with her request, knowing that she would profit far more from the crisis-less recount of his days than by indulging on her father’s condition any more. “And yesterday evening I took the train to London. I had that meeting I told you about with the late renter for Brancaster.”

“ _How did that go?_ ”

“Well enough. He’s an American looking to sell his daughter to the most aristocratic buyer, I suppose. They were quite upset that Peter wasn’t here to deal with them directly. She spent the entire morning silently brooding beside her father, until we closed the deal.”

“ _That sounds dreadful. Will you stay in London long?_ ”

“No, not really. The contract will be signed tomorrow, of course, and I’ve decided to stay for a couple of days to take a break, but I really ought to get back, so I’ll take the train on Saturday, I think. I’d ask you to come,” he said as a late addendum. “But you should stay with your father until he is back on his feet.”

“ _I’d come in a heartbeat,_ ” she whispered. He felt a shiver run through him at the words. “ _And I think Papa could be left alone, but we’re opening the house this Saturday to collect money for a charity, and I can’t leave when everyone is so busy and Papa is lying in bed, grunting his disapproval of the entire scheme._ ”

“It’s quite all right. There will be other occasions and…” Bertie took a deep breath. “I know the last time you were in London I implied I might not want to meet your family, but the truth is I’ve had time to think about it, and I’ve rethought my opinion on the matter. I care a great deal about you, Edith. I’m sure you know this already. And that means that I should like to introduce myself properly to your family as well. It doesn’t have to be tomorrow, and I’m not really inviting myself to Downton, either. I just wanted you to know that it’s an option, if you want it to be. I won’t be scared off.”

He could feel Edith’s smile when next she spoke. “ _I shall look forward to that_.”

They said their goodbyes and Bertie decided to spend his day out at the National Gallery; he hadn’t been there in a long time, and Peter had asked him to take stock of some of Turner’s works, which he wanted to use as inspiration for his own paintings – though both Bertie and Peter knew that Turner was a much better landscape portraitist than Peter could ever wish to become.

The visit was refreshing; there wasn’t much of London he preferred to Northumberland in general, but the culture and art that he could enjoy in the Capital was certainly years away from the rural landscapes of Northern Britain. When he arrived back to Hexham House that evening, he found a letter waiting for him – it had come with the last post.

_Dearest Bertie,_

_I hope you meant it when you said you were ready, because my mother has extended an invitation for you. You could come on Friday on your way back home. I know it’s short notice, and I know it’s not ideal (she did say she expected some counsel for the Open House business), but I would very much like it if you could stay here, at least until Sunday._

_Yours,_

_Edith_

Short notice might have been an understatement, but Bertie resolved to accept regardless of that. Besides, he had his tails, and his dinner jacket with him, so at least he wouldn’t look like a fish out of water. He had no valid excuse not to accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope those of you who are reading from the other side of the pond, so to speak, won't take the portrait of Mr Anderson and his daughter as an affront. I felt it would be rather unrealistic to have a British person (no matter how modern) view Americans as anything less than unpalatable in the 1920s.


	9. Sweeter manners, purer laws (part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally Bertie meets the family properly... hope the chapter won't disappoint!

_12_ _June, 1925_

He had arranged with Edith for her to come and pick him up at the station once his train arrived, but after twenty minutes of delay, he accepted that he was better off walking. He asked directions for the Abbey to the station manager and found that the route was quite straightforward. He considered taking a taxi, but feared he might pass Edith on the way and miss her if he did, so he took his luggage and started walking. By the time he had surpassed the village limits, he was short of breath; he was used to walking, but he generally had more comfortable shoes and didn’t have to carry the weight of his two suitcases. The scenery was pleasant, at the very least.

He heard the incoming car before he saw it, and was too relieved to see that Edith had finally come to pick him up to bother much about all the path he had already had to walk. The kiss he stole from her was probably the only one he would be allowed to give her for the duration of his stay, so he made it last and poured into it all of his love for her. He didn’t particularly appreciate her comment, but if ‘nice and automatic’ was what she was pleased with, then he guessed he ought not to complain.

She drove very well, though a bit faster than Bertie was used to, and when he commented on it, her reaction was to accelerate more still, though she had the grace to slow down immediately thereafter.

“I remember when Tom was teaching me to drive,” she said. “I didn’t see it, then, but I’m pretty sure he was scared for his life, though he tried not to show it.”

“I’m scared for my life now,” Bertie commented jokingly.

“How was your time in London?”

“Not too bad. I went to the National Gallery and finally managed to find some books I had been looking for. I daresay my mother will be happy; she has been hounding me for them for ages, and whenever I came back empty handed, she acted as if I had forgotten rather than been unsuccessful.”

“What does she like reading?”

“Conrad, if you’ll believe it. I think I have the house full of all of his publications – and not just his novels and short stories, either. She was born in Newbiggin-by-the-sea and grew up close to the water; I don’t think she ever outgrew her love for it.”

“How did your parents meet, then?”

“Father was vacationing there with Cousin William, Peter’s late father, one year, and they met. My grandfather didn’t approve too much, but Cousin William was rather supportive, so in the end they married.”

“Why did your grandfather not approve?”

“He still hoped Father would find a peer to marry, despite the fact that my father had no such goals in life.”

“Was it because he was an Army officer?”

Bertie turned to look at Edith, but found no malice in her question, just simple curiosity. It was then that Bertie realised he had never told her about the line of succession. He paused, thinking about whether or not he wanted her to know; it wasn’t likely that he would inherit, and he didn’t want her to love him because of his prospects, but not to tell her would be dishonest in its own way. “No,” he admitted finally. “It was because my father was the heir to the title. Until Peter was born, the line of succession was very clear. Of course, no one actually expected my father to inherit; Cousin William was quite young still, after all, even though he had yet to produce an heir.”

She slowed down considerably, then. And even though they were in the drive up to the Abbey and he could clearly see that someone was already outside waiting for them, he worried that she might be too shocked to keep driving. “Does that mean you are the heir to your cousin?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But Peter is going to marry and Cousin Adele is not going to stop having children until she has an heir – or two, just to be on the safe side. I don’t want you to think that there’s any prospect of me becoming the next Marquess of Hexham because that’s not who I am. I am and will continue to be, the agent.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, as she drove to a stop. “I didn’t mean to sound as if I wanted you to become the next Marquess. I was just shocked, that’s all. I can safely say I don’t really care about a title, at this point. I rather think I would quite like a simpler life.”

Bertie took her words to be spoken in honesty, though part of him didn’t necessarily accept that as the truth. He would have plenty of time to ponder over them, but right now was not the appropriate moment. He exited the car, helped the footman retrieve his luggage until it was clear that he really shouldn’t have, and then followed Edith inside. “I wish I could take you for a tour of the gardens, or even a simple walk, but I’m afraid we would be late for dinner, and we’re trying to keep to a very tight schedule for Papa.”

“It’s quite all right,” Bertie reassured her. “We can always go for a walk on Sunday, before I have to leave. I’m not here to see the sights, anyway.”

“And why are you here?” She asked.

“To make an impression on your parents. Hopefully, a positive one.”

“What about my sister and Tom?”

“I’ve already spent some positive time with Mr Branson, and I’m not really that interested in what your sister thinks of me. Not as long as that doesn’t change your opinion.”

“It won’t. Of that, you can be certain.”

They walked together upstairs, but separated on the landing – he had stayed the night at Brancaster often enough to know that the custom was to have bachelor men as far away from the women as possible.

Before he had to dress, however, he unpacked, aided by Lord Grantham’s valet, Mr Bates, a man who had far more vitality than the cane he used to support himself seemed to imply. Uncomfortable with remaining in silence with a man who was taking care of his clothes, Bertie tried to strike up a conversation, and discovered that Mr Bates had served in the Army, and as Lord Grantham’s batman during the Boer War. Their common past belonging to the armed forces carried them through the minutes of unpacking.

“Will you require my help dressing, Mr Pelham?” Mr Bates asked in an exemplary gesture of professionalism.

“No, but thank you very much for asking. And for the assistance with my luggage,” he added.

“Not at all, it was my pleasure.”

Mr Bates left him after that, and Bertie proceeded to make sure that his formal attire had not been ruined by his trip through the countryside.

Once he was dressed and ready to go down, he came out in the hall to find Edith had waited for him on the landing. If he hadn’t loved her tremendously already, he might have started worshipping her just for that. He wasn’t exceptionally good at meeting new people, and the stifling confines of grand dining and drawing rooms were not his preferred landscapes to conversing with new acquaintances – especially if they were people he wanted to like, and by whom he desperately needed to be liked. To know that he would not have to start on his own, but rather would have someone to hold his hand, so to speak, was a gift from above.

When Edith said she wanted to go check in on the children, Bertie’s mouth moved of its own accord when requesting to accompany her, but, when it caught up, his brain actually agreed with his mouth; he didn’t consider for an instant the visit as something to be endured in order to keep himself from meeting any of her relatives without her by side. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. No, all he saw in going to the night nursery was the opportunity to see yet another side of Edith she had revealed to him only in words, but that he longed to witness in person. Indeed, he was rewarded for his wishes. There was a tenderness in Edith as she looked at the children, all three of them, that she had not displayed in his presence before. It was as if those three young souls were to her dearer than any other individual alive – it was clear that she wanted to shelter them and love them with all of herself. There was a longing, too, in her eyes, as if for a desire to be one of those three children or, better yet, as if all she wished from life was the chance to go back and relive those days of her youth in the same way as those three children were now, according to what she had told him: peacefully and united, like siblings ought to be. It seemed as though every day he was in her company, Bertie found something else that made him hopelessly enamoured in her; it turned his mind to his future, one where he now could only fathom marrying her, and he hoped he would be allowed to feel like that for the longest of times still, like every day was a chance for him to find a deeper degree of love, a stronger knowledge of the sentiment and the person who so inspired it in him.

* * *

_13 June, 1925_

They had a long day ahead of them. Both he and Tom had relegated themselves to the duty of selling tickets and organising the visitors in manageable groups. Despite the long queue, which didn’t seem to diminish at all even as time passed, once tickets were sold and the occasional complainer was abated, there wasn’t much activity at the ticket table. He and Tom were mostly left to their own devices, and though the fact that they were both within strangers’ earshot was never far from Bertie’s mind, he still preferred trying his hand at building a positive relationship with Tom – a far better one than his bullying at dinner the previous evening might have inspired.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he begun, when the first lull in activity came.

“Oh?”

“I was rather…”

“Helpful?” Tom supplied kindly.

Bertie gave him a look. “Forceful and annoying.”

“I daresay we needed it. We had the idea, Mary and I, but absolutely no real grasp of what that involved. I was glad you were there to help us out.”

The next batch of visitors clamoured for their attention, requesting a timetable for when they could hope to begin their visit, and Tom took the role of quietening them down; they’d probably have to interrupt any conversation they began multiple times, but the idea of not interacting at all with the man who shared his duty seemed idiotic at best. Bertie knew there wasn’t going to be much opportunity for spending time with Edith’s family on this particular visit, and he wanted to make the best of what time he had – hoping that he might even make enough of a good impression to receive a second invitation.

“You must be practiced in this kind of thing. Edith told me you were considering organising tours of the grounds and castle at Brancaster on a regular basis?”

“I was, yes. I did, actually. Some of the loaders and guides for the grouse season have given their approval of the project. The grounds are quite pleasant, especially in summer, and it _is_ private land, so technically not accessible by the public. The problem itself would be to make it more enticing to people; which is why I suggested adding a tour of the outer walls, at the very least, and possibly of the inner courtyard. It isn’t much of an inconvenience, currently, when Lord Hexham is not staying in the castle long, the staff could easily take care of the tours.”

“But once he’s back, it would mean having to disrupt the staff’s routine,” Tom concluded for him.

“Or hiring someone else for the job. And whoever would organise the walks of the grounds is unlikely to dedicate to the activity as much time as I had thought originally. For the time being I have accepted requests for private visits to the Castle, much like the one you are having today, for small parties, but larger commitments would definitely require Lord Hexham’s approval.”

“He’s not home often, I take it?”

“No, not really. He will be back in December, though, and we will have all the time to plan, then.” They were interrupted again, then, by an outgoing party, which signalled the next batch could have their turn.

“You did make an overall good impression if that helps.” Tom commented when they were again left alone.

“Are you allowed to say as much?”

“Probably not,” Tom conceded. “Then again, I was the chauffeur, what do I know?”

“I know that should put my mind at ease, but Edith has told me enough about your situation with the family for me to understand that it doesn’t necessarily imply that Lord and Lady Grantham will accept me with open arms. I know my prospects are not something to get enthusiastic about, and any respectable parent would want the best for their daughter. If you consider Edith probably has a larger income than I do, I suppose my presence isn’t all that welcome.” He didn’t know why he was being honest with Edith’s brother-in-law, but Tom inspired confidence, and was more likely to keep this conversation private than anyone else who could give Bertie some insight into the parents of the woman he loved.

“I’d say you were right, on principle, to be put off, except you aren’t really the only novelty currently interested in one of the Crawley daughters.”

“Henry Talbot,” Bertie said. “He did mention Lady Mary, of course.”

“I didn’t know you had kept in contact after last autumn.”

“We did. I think people feel some kind of obligation to include me in their lives once they have met me; I think they pity me for some reason.” One look at Tom told him those were the wrong words to express what he meant. “The thing is, I look like someone lacking in affections. I’m not, but I do look the part. And before you say I don’t, let me assure you that it was my best friend who said as much. He revealed to me that when we first met in school he felt sorry for me because he thought I looked like someone who didn’t have a friend in the world. Then again, I can’t really complain about that, considering it’s the reason why I met him and, in a convoluted way, Edith.”

“I don’t think she ever felt sorry for you.”

“No, not Edith herself. Rather, Lord Sinderby. Lord Hexham and I had met in London with him and his son, and it soon became apparent to me that they found me somewhat rueful. So, of course, when they extended their invitation, I did think it had been issued more on account of their wishes not to exclude me, rather than for any particular good impression they might have had of me. In short, they were unnecessarily kind.”

“Well, I know Rose would have definitely insisted on having you over, I know she is most often than not set on trying to make everyone happy.”

“She sounds like a lovely woman. I’m sorry I didn’t really get to meet her properly.”

“She is a force to be reckoned with,” Tom said with a fondness in his voice.

They talked with the same interference on and off for the duration of the day, eating sandwiches brought to them by the young footman, Andrew, but it was only towards the middle of the afternoon that anything really noteworthy happened.

A car approached while he and Tom were selling tickets for the next batch of visitors, and he saw Tom’s back straighten and his face crumble. “Oh, there’s going to be blood.” Bertie wasn’t sure what that meant, nor even if Tom had wanted him to hear at all, but he was curious enough to inquire as to the reason behind that statement. “That’s the Dowager Countess,” Tom explained, even as an elderly woman was helped out of the car. “And by the looks of her, she’s been told about the change in leadership for the hospital.” That still left Bertie with no clear picture of precisely what was transpiring, but rather than inquire about it, he took a look at her and decided that that was not the right moment to introduce himself to Edith’s grandmother. He took over for Tom as he went to intercept his grandmother-in-law, and waited patiently, trying not to look too hard in their direction as he did so.

Tom was only allowed at the Dowager Countess’ side for as long as it took her to reach the door, and Bertie had no doubt about the fact that it had been her allowance to keep Tom by her side rather than any influence the man might have on her; it looked as if there was going to be at least one person in Edith’s family who wouldn’t even try to lie about whether or not she liked him for Edith. The thought was both daunting and reassuring in its own way. Despite the fact that it meant Edith might have to make a choice between Bertie and her family, it also meant that someone did care about her deeply, more than what Edith herself had clearly a notion of. Besides, if he did manage to win her grandmother over to his side, then he knew he would have at least one true ally fighting in his corner – in a society were appearances were often far more important than the truth, it was a refreshing thought indeed. If the ally looked as fierce as the Dowager, Bertie rather thought he might have in her more than he had actually hoped for.

As Tom explained to him what the problem between Edith’s grandmother and mother was, it became increasingly clear to Bertie that it was unlikely that he should actually have a chance to meet the Dowager Countess. His belief was compounded when the woman in question came bounding out the door, an air of insulted fury about her that he could not mistake, even though he didn’t know her at all; she was stopped in her tracks by an older gentleman, whom Tom introduced as Lord Merton, Mary’s godfather and a close friend of the family, and a younger woman whom Tom didn’t know. The interlude in Lady Grantham’s walk, however, was very brief and didn’t seem to be indicative of any sort of pacification on the elder woman’s side.

“I guess I won’t be meeting her, tonight.”

“No,” Tom agreed, “I guess you won’t be meeting her for a while.”

* * *

Bertie pitied the servants who had had to stay upright for the whole duration of the visit – or little less than that. Even as they strove to function properly in their posts, it was evident that they were terribly tired. Having to bring coffee to Lord Grantham’s bedroom did not seem to help their fatigue in any way. He pitied especially the two lady’s maids who would have to take care of Lady Mary and Lady Grantham, for they had to stay awake longer than anyone else, certainly.

If he himself had not had to attend to coffee with the family, he might have happily retired to bed early. He wasn’t the most tired out, as was evidenced by the sluggish conversation at dinner, after all, he had had a lot of time to sit throughout the day, but that didn’t change the fact that it had been a tiring experience. He felt awkward when Tom pushed him to participate in providing Lord Grantham with an account of the day’s results in the monetary department; it was hard for him not to feel the intruder in the room. He had clearly usurped Tom of a place to sit, and Lady Mary had been determinedly not looking directly at him for the whole time. The most glaringly obvious marker of his role as the external element to the whole deal, however, had been Lord Grantham’s puzzled expression as Bertie had entered the room. He had tried to cover it up promptly, of course, but Bertie had still seen it plain as day.

The intimacy of the room, however, proved to be helpful at least in some way. Bertie had had a superficial read of the family and the way they interacted with each other, because the setting of the dining and drawing rooms had served as a stark reminder to everyone of their roles as hosts and guest. Now, with lights dimmed and doors closed, Bertie’s quiet persona had a chance to slip back unnoticed, effectively making him as conspicuous as a piece of furniture. He was good at that; indeed, he had had ample practice at more pompous functions to hide himself in plain sight, and it was a skill he rarely regretted making use of. He had wanted to learn about Edith’s family, certainly, but mostly he had wanted to learn about her role in the family, and how she had been shaped by them into the person she was, the person whom he was steadily falling deeper in love with, who could so easily insinuate herself into his every thought, turn the dedicated agent into a distracted adolescent, make him wish never to be parted from her. He had met her on a day of liberation for her, that much had been plain to him from the very beginning, though what that newfound freedom entailed and what it stemmed from were still enigmas to him, but the more time he spent with her, the more he felt as if she had only managed to escape her cell, but was still somehow trapped in the dungeons. There had been hints, stories that hid feelings she’d rather keep buried still, but he had lacked the concrete picture, the deep-seated reason why she couldn’t get out of the labyrinth she had constructed around herself, hampering all of Bertie’s efforts to make her see her own self-worth, forcing her to walk left and right, up and down, around the truth to never quite grasp it fully. Bertie had never met a person so self-assured and in control, who could be so absolutely self-effacing and blind to her true self, even as she displayed it so clearly for everyone around her to see.

Sitting there, with her family around him, Bertie was no longer sure he needed too many questions to get to the point. Her cleverness appeared to be swallowed whole and regurgitated like unwanted food for no apparent reason, all eyes in the room gravitating to Lady Mary even as she spoke unkindly and presumptuously. Edith had already told him about Mary, of their rotten relationship and the fact that her sister brought out the worst in Edith even though now, at over thirty years old, Edith was perfectly capable of not being as nasty as she professed to have been in the past. He had spied that same truth in the interactions between the two sisters the previous day at dinner, and the fact that he hadn’t taken a particular liking to Lady Mary’s behaviour was not even a reflex of the way he felt she was unjust to Edith. Yet, it was only as she boasted of being grander than the rest of the family that Bertie understood. It was the silence, the condescending smiles, the parental affection at her behaviour that he hadn’t quite seen and understood. Lady Mary was a bully, and her parents had encouraged her in that; her entitlement and pecksniffian attitude had had room to grow and flourish in her home and, it seemed, they had done so at the expenses of her sister. Edith, who usually had no trouble remarking on someone’s behaviour when it wasn’t acceptable, at best rolled her eyes at her sister, but immediately beneath her calm surface, it was apparent to Bertie that she struggled with not rebuffing her own sister, with being so overshadowed in her parents’ eyes by their elder daughter. And what did that speak of her parents’ character, that they should not see – or even consciously refuse to chastise – Mary’s behaviour, when Bertie himself, who had only known Edith for a few months, could so plainly grasp the magnitude of the malaise it was inflicting on Edith? Even Tom, who could be counted upon to make fun of Lady Mary, didn’t really seem to be protecting Edith from her sister.

Bertie felt the sudden urge to leave. Not just the room, but Downton itself, its very walls suddenly appeared small and constricting, suffocating him just as much as they were Edith. He wanted to place his coffee cup down, get up, take Edith’s hand and just run away to his home in Northumberland, where he knew she could be cherished as she ought to be. He restrained himself from acting rashly, all too aware that temerity would serve no purpose but to alienate him to Edith’s family and, he thought dejectedly, Edith herself. Because the sad truth was that, despite the obvious preferential treatment Lady Mary enjoyed, Edith loved her family wholeheartedly, with a devotion that Bertie recognised to be his own to his mother and late father, though Bertie himself had no compunction when it came to putting his mother in her place if she was being unreasonably stubborn or narrow-minded.

When they did leave the room, he had no time to truly speak to Edith alone, for she was in the room next to her parents’, and he had to walk with Tom to the other side of the house. There was a moment when he considered requesting a few minutes alone with her, but Lady Mary’s presence at her sister’s shoulder, a look of scathing curiosity on her, prevented him from going through with it; he said his goodnights and walked with Tom along the corridor.

“Thank you again for the help, today,” Tom said as they reached his room and were separating. “I just realised we roped you into this whole business without really asking, even though you are actually supposed to be a guest here.”

Bertie smiled kindly, “I think the whole purpose of my being here was that I should make myself useful. Or at least liked. So, I suppose either way it wasn’t much of an imposition.” Bertie bade Tom goodnight and proceeded further to his own room. He would try to talk to Edith in the morning, and hopefully the night would be enough to make him more amenable to the idea of Downton, though he doubted it very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, the open house even was on the 6th of June (as displayed in the episode). However, the date didn't really fit with Robert's recovery after his operation, so I shifted it forward a week because that made more sense.


	10. Love is the only gold (part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late submission this week, but we are finally allowed to walk a bit and the day was beautiful, so I went for a lonely hike in the afternoon. Stay safe, everyone!

_29 June, 1925_

He had gone back home after his visit to Downton to find that he was more determined than ever to marry Edith; he wanted to be with her more for seeing her in the place she called home, which so obviously choked her personality, twisting and distorting her character until she was other than her true self, less wholesome and lively, taking on traits of a caged animal looking for liberation. Business, however, had needed to take precedence.

He spent over ten days focused solely on the maintenance and upkeep of the Castle and its surrounding terrains; tenants and farmers alike became his closest friends, and Bertie strived to make them happy at every turn without forgetting that he ultimately had to have Peter’s best interests at heart. He received a call from Henry Talbot, at some point, but it was relayed to Bertie by his mother at such a late hour that he completely forgot to call the man back until he was packing his luggage the day before he was to leave for Butteryhaugh Hall. He tried to remedy immediately what might be perceived as a slight, only to find that Henry had called to say he had been in the area to visit with Charlie Rogers and had wanted to invite Bertie along. Bertie had promised to be available when next Henry passed through Northumberland, and they set a date for the following week.

Amidst all the backlog of work, however, Bertie had not forgotten to keep up with Edith. He called her every evening before dinner, and every morning he knew she was in London. They spent enough time on the phone that when his mother picked up his letters to post, she never failed to raise an eyebrow when she noticed one addressed to Edith. For his part, Bertie knew he was appearing a bit too eager, but he truly didn’t care. Edith had never complained, and hers was the only opinion that truly mattered, as far as he was concerned. They simultaneously managed to discuss absolutely everything and nothing at all, as he remembered his parents doing when he was young. He would talk about his work and she about hers, or they would spend time simply blabbering for the sake of hearing the other’s voice, without necessarily having a set topic in mind – just to turn their brains off and relax. She talked about the children, Marigold in particular, and he tried to compare her stories with his memories of Harry’s children; he would tell her about his mother fussing, and she would talk about the feud between her mother and grandmother, which didn’t look at all like it was going to cool down anytime soon. Sometimes, she would tell him about a book she thought he might enjoy, and he in turn tried to convince her that Lord Tennyson truly was the best poet to come out of Great Britain (he didn’t necessarily think that, but he liked to pretend just to hear her describe how incorrect it was to compare poets of different ages and group them in a single category. She adored Tennyson as well). Every time they spoke, he ended the call by apologising for his inability to come down to London in the immediate future, and she, in turn, reassured him that she understood his duties came first.

Upon his return from Butteryhaugh, Bertie had found Harry waiting for him at the cottage. It had been Sunday afternoon, which meant his friend had probably cut his family luncheon short by coming out to see him. His friend had come to tell him that he had found Thomas with a book on military history in his hands. Bertie, who didn’t have as much apprehension as Harry on the matter – though he would prefer his oldest godson not to be involved in any life-threatening business – had decided that the best way to see what and how serious Thomas’ intentions were was to invite the lad with him on an outing, so he had told Harry he would collect Thomas from home the following morning and bring him along to his jaunt with Henry and Charlie. Bertie had called ahead to let Henry know about the slight adaptation to the plans, but Henry hadn’t complained, understanding the situation Bertie had found himself in.

When Bertie had gone to pick Thomas up it had been early morning, but Elizabeth had been up and complaining that it didn’t seem right that Thomas should get to spend some time alone with Bertie and the rest of them didn’t, so Bertie had consented to remedy that by organising a future visit with her especially.

“Why exactly am I coming along?” Thomas asked, halfway through their destination. The young man had been puzzled about Bertie’s invitation, possibly because he had never displayed much interest about cars.

“The truth?” Bertie asked.

“Possibly.”

“I think you could use some time away from your parents and siblings, and you could also benefit from spending time with men that aren’t either filled to the brim with farming advice or lessons in anatomy. Let’s say you should diversify.” It wasn’t a lie exactly, indeed it was Bertie’s whole intent for getting Thomas away from the house for a day. The only subterfuge at hand was that Bertie was concealing the main reason which had prompted him to stage this trip.

“I definitely need some time off from Elizabeth,” he muttered.

“Is something wrong between you two?” Bertie asked, somewhat concerned. He didn’t like to think his godchildren at odds with one another; as a lonely child, he knew what it meant to grow up alone, and he would have given everything not to, so it stood to reason that he would wish his godchildren to be devoted to one another.

“No, not really. It’s just…” Thomas hesitated, and though Bertie was looking at the road in front of him, he could see that the boy was looking at him – staring. Eventually, Thomas decided to tackle the issue that clearly concerned Bertie. “Please don’t tell her I told you, but the truth of it is, Lizzie has a bit of a crush on you. And I know you’re a good man and all, but that’s just not all right.”

Bertie tightened his grip on the steering wheel a bit, before relaxing again. He’d had an inkling, of course, and Thomas had made jokes about it before, obviously, but if he had hesitated before saying anything, it meant that it was more serious than Bertie had understood it to be. He loved Elizabeth dearly, but he didn’t think she actually knew her own mind on this; he encouraged her reading, of course, but he feared too many novels had given her a skewed perception on what romantic love was. “I’ll talk to her,” he reassured Thomas. “I know it’s serious in her head, and she might think she actually feels something deep for me, but she will get over it. And don’t worry,” he added, “I’ll let her down gently. But you need to not make fun of her anymore, so that she knows she can trust you with her broken heart, all right?”

Thomas nodded, and from there on their drive was spent more pleasurably discussing Thomas’ summer work in the hospital with his father. There was no doubt in Bertie’s mind that Thomas had a strong inclination towards all things medical, and he had a sudden idea that might help cover all of his interests and simultaneously appease his parents.

They met Henry and Charlie outside Newcastle, where the two had plans to spend their morning racing their cars to get better acquainted with them ahead of a race, the specifics of which Bertie couldn’t really remember. They were both very friendly with Thomas, and even asked him whether he wanted to have a go with one of them, but Thomas was more likely to cite all of the things that could happen to them if they were in an accident than accepting the offer, so Bertie denied on his behalf, admitting that Thomas’ parents would have his head on a platter if they discovered he had allowed their son in a moving racing car. Thomas didn’t dislike seeing them racing around and egging each other on whenever one took the lead over the other, but it was clear to Bertie that the young man was far from being enthusiastic about the sport.

Afterwards, they headed to the pub for a drink, and though Thomas couldn’t drink, Bertie let him have a sip of his beer with the lunch, knowing it would help him feel less of a boy in the midst of men. When Henry asked Thomas’ opinion on racing cars, Bertie had half a mind to hug him in gratefulness.

“I liked it well enough,” Thomas answered. “But it’s not for me, I’m afraid. I’ve always preferred reading to riding. My brother George might like it better, though.”

“Which is why I’m not taking him to see the two of them race,” Bertie commented with a smile. “The last thing I need is your mother blaming me for getting George into racing cars. She already blames me for him wanting a racing horse.”

“And a train,” Thomas added.

“What’s this about a train?” Charlie asked.

“Uncle Bertie has always travelled a lot by train, and George decided that he wanted to have a train of his own so he could travel just as much. He threw a tantrum for weeks about it, until Uncle Bertie bought him a wooden model.”

“It cost me a fortune, but your mother forgave me, so it was well worth it.”

The conversation proceeded naturally from there, and they spent a pleasant day together, until it was time for them to go in their separate directions. Henry invited Bertie to see Charlie and him race at Brooklands the following week, saying he was going to invite the Crawleys as well as further incentive for Bertie to come. Bertie didn’t even care that Thomas snickered at the unsubtle reference to Bertie’s obsession with the youngest Crawley sister, he told Henry and Charlie he would come and meant it.

* * *

_1 July, 1925_

When he skimmed through the post that morning, he was pleasantly surprised to find the familiar cursive of his cousin amongst the letters. He had only written to Peter less than two weeks before, and hadn’t truly expected a response to come quite this early, especially considering Bertie had been able to make his letter a jumbled mess of important information – both regarding Brancaster and his own private life.

_My dearest Bertie,_

_I did not expect to be writing back to you quite so promptly, but Yearnshire insisted I read your letter at once, and would not be persuaded to leave me alone until I did. When he saw me skim over the initial part, he was very persistent in his rebuke of me. In the end, I had to question whether or not he has some powers of perception that extend beyond the immediately humane. You will think me delusional, but he seems to have a knack for those letters that are slightly more important than the others. I suppose that’s part of the reason why, even though I sometimes lament the fact that he’s overbearing and annoying, I should not even like to think upon the day when we will be separated. I shall erect a monument in his name before too long!_

_I have gone over all of your figures and your explanation about the medical instrumentations and whatnots developed by the B. Braun company, and though much of the instrumentations scared me into thinking I shall never go to a doctor again for as long as I live, I have to say they do look as promising as any enterprise I have ever heard of. Your suggestion to invest sensibly is clearly based on extensive knowledge, and I like the fact that they have also just set up a foreign production; it makes me quite confident. If that was not approval enough from me, then let me write it plainly to you: go ahead and invest (I have sent a letter to Mr Bell, a formal one, so next time you are in London you can figure out the details with him)._

_Now, though, let me just say that I shall never again be imposed upon to refrain from commenting on such momentous news as the one you have given me (Yearnshire was just as excited as I am. I do rather think he has a soft spot for you; he certainly always liked you best of all my playmates). I scarcely know how you managed to give me a detailed and professional report on my finances, when your heart was filled with the resolution of marrying. Bertie, my dearest chap, I am so very happy for you! I shall not offer my congratulations for an answer to a question that has not yet been made, but I will offer them for your resolution and for the fact that you have found a woman whom you love so completely and devotedly. I know you think of yourself as unworthy of her affections, and there is scant I could ever say to change your opinion on the matter (it does not help that in your descriptions of her she appears the most fantastic woman who ever walked the Earth – and she must be quite close at any rate to have captured your heart so wholly), but let me tell you in no uncertain terms that, as much as you think yourself privileged in knowing her and possessing her affection, she is so very gifted in receiving yours._

_Her family does not sound too promising (except for the brother-in-law, I like the sound of him), but you never know with the peers, we are a curious bunch, all of us. Take the time to get to know them properly before you do jump to conclusions. You only saw a glimpse of them, and your beloved Lady Edith, however virtuous and perfect, is – much like all of us – still human; it is a vastly acknowledged truth that we humans are very biased when it comes to portraying our families (and rarely in a complimentary way, either)._

_I have decided, though, that I shall meet her. I have asked Yearnshire to look into arranging for me to travel back in September (it will put an added speed to my own plans with Cousin Adele, but I am fine with that, and I can assure you that your plans will come first nonetheless), because I cannot bear the oppression of all the responsibilities of a summer back home this year, and I have written to Geoffrey Howard about it to arrange for a visit with him at Castle Howard. As you well know, I had great estimation for his father, the late Earl of Carlisle, and frequented both him and his older son, Charles, as long as they were both alive. Even though I am not in as close as a rapport with Geoffrey as I was with his father and his oldest brother (or indeed as I am with his oldest daughter’s husband, Gilbert Murray), I still know him well and he has fond memories of me, so I hope he will consent for the two of us to stay at Castle Howard with him for a time, so you might properly court Lady Edith and, why not, have a proper engagement party (though I would very much like to lend you Brancaster for that particular occasion, Cousin Adele would have my head on a platter if she were to succeed the land agent in her glory. I am truly sorry, my boy). Her family will undoubtedly like that, and I do hope she will as well._

_I am so very excited at the prospect of meeting her, I am finally anticipating the return home. If you tell her nothing else about this letter, then tell her this. I am most eager to meet her, truly, and so very, very happy! (And now I shall stop writing, because I have repeated myself too many times already, and it is always a bad sign when a man cannot express himself coherently or eloquently.)_

_All my love,_

_Peter_

_P.S. Do send me a telegraph if something momentous happens, I do not want to hear of it a week later than it has happened. Your joy is my joy, in this._

Bertie smiled. He didn’t like to think too positively about his prospects of marriage with Edith, but he had been honest with Peter about his intentions because he knew Peter better than Peter thought. Still, he had not expected a post scriptum at the end of the letter. Peter hated those, as he said they were a sign of a jumbled mind, of someone who was not in control of his thoughts; he would soon re-write a five-page letter than include one, generally. It made Bertie giddy with pleasure that Peter’s excitement was so very true and palpable even across a continent.

Of course, Peter had forgotten that Bertie knew the Howards in a way. Though not nearly as familiar with them as Peter was, Bertie remembered very well how the ninth Earl had frequented Brancaster Castle as he was a child; Bertie had had recounts of his visits both from his father and from Peter, who had at the time found the idea of a peer who was also a painter very revolutionary and liberating. Peter had followed Lord Carlisle’s career studiously, admiring his style even though he had always been more inclined toward the more exotic art of painters like Delacroix, who had dared venture outside the confines of Europe to find inspirations, and yet had always somewhat retained their classical education. Peter loved statuary figures, but he preferred unexplored subjects, supporting the idea that the only thing lacking in Renaissance art was the imagery. Dreary England was too dull to ever provide an artist with a full palette. Bertie didn’t necessarily agree, of course, but he hadn’t studied History of Art, so he allowed his cousin free control over conversations that centred around the topic.

His mother’s voice broke him from the trance he had been in over Peter’s letter. “Good news?”

He raised his eyes to meet hers, opposite him as they sat at the breakfast table. It was good news for him, of course, but he didn’t say as much because he knew his mother to be very temperamental in the morning and he didn’t care to start an argument about Peter before his day had even started. “Peter is trying to arrange to come home earlier than anticipated. In September, hopefully.”

“Do we know why?”

Bertie considered telling her, but then preferred not to. He didn’t want to tell Mother about the engagement until he had been accepted; he loved her to pieces, but he didn’t feel like involving her before everything was official, for he was afraid she would make a thing of it and blow everything out of proportion. A part of him feared that if he didn’t have Edith’s acceptance before she were to meet Mother, he would never have it. “Something I told him when last I wrote to him,” he explained without lying. “I’ve provided him with some possible investments.”

“And that’s enough to bring him back home?” His mother sounded highly sceptical. Bertie should have been upset, but she was right, of course, so he couldn’t really. “He’s never shown much of an interest in Brancaster’s future, before.”

“That’s not fair, Mother. Especially since he settled the matter of the inheritance and all but gifted you Butteryhaugh Hall.”

He saw she was on the verge of coming up with a retort, but must have decided against it at the last second, because none came. “Tell me about this investment, why don’t you. I’d rather that to an argument so early in the morning.” Bertie smiled, happy that for once she had contained herself before he had to do it himself, and proceeded to tell her all about his idea of medical research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The people mentioned in Peter's letter (the Earl of Carlisle and his family) are all real people. Obviously I know none of them, nor do I know their ancestors, and what little information I give about them was glimpsed from research done online.
> 
> I did mention Castle Howard because that is where Bertie and his mother are staying in the Christmas Special, in the days before the wedding. It made sense that should be a connection, and even more sense that that connection should have been achieved through Peter, since George Howard, the 9th Earl of Carlisle (he died in 1911, and is 'the late earl' Peter refers to) was an artist. The 9th Earl was also the last Earl of Carlisle to inhabit Castle Howard, since the residence passed to his fifth son (the Geoffrey Howard mentioned in the letter), while the principal family seat moved to Naworth Castle, in Cumbria.


	11. Love is the only gold (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting worse at timings, sorry. Work has been crazy lately, and I haven't had the best days because of it either. I will get to the reviews tomorrow, if I can manage it. Just know that I really appreciate all of your kind words and when I'm having one of those days at work, you're really turning it around.

_4 July, 1925_

Bertie didn’t like to talk about Elizabeth behind her back, especially to someone who knew her, but for all the confidence he had exuded with Thomas about letting his sister down gently and making her see how her infatuation was a misplaced feeling, Bertie had little experience on the subject. There was, truly, only one person beyond Ada whom he could think to consult on the matter, of course. When he had spoken to Edith the previous evening, he had asked her if she might have some extra time on her hands the next morning for a proper talk – she had agreed, after only requesting a short assurance that there was nothing grave he wished to communicate.

“ _Might I know what it is that you wanted to talk to me about, now?_ ”

Bertie had skewed around the issue that morning as well, of course he had, because he didn’t like to talk about Lizzie at all, and doing it with the woman he was in love with appeared even less wholesome the more he thought about it. He had greeted her, proceeded to ask about every member of her family, from her Granny to Marigold, including Lady Mary in the process, but then she had cut through, her patience evidently coming to an end.

“I’m sorry. I have been trying my best not to talk about this with anyone for nearly two weeks now, and I guess it’s made me uncomfortable sharing it even with you.” 

“ _If you want me to forget about it, I will. After all, I don’t even know what it is you wanted to talk to me about in the first place._ ” 

Bertie took a deep breath. “No. No, I definitely need someone’s opinion, and I can’t think of anyone else. I spoke with Thomas, my godson, two weeks ago, and he hinted at the fact that Elizabeth, his sister, carries a torch for me, so to speak.” Even though she wasn’t there to see him, Bertie’s face flushed in embarrassment and his eyes suddenly found the tip of his shoes rather interesting. “I don’t think I did anything to encourage her in it,” he proceeded to say, “but I’d like to discourage her from it, without her feeling embarrassed about it. Let’s discount the fact that she’s my best friend’s daughter, and that I’m clearly not interested in her in a romantic way, she’s fourteen years old.” 

“ _Is it just her brother who thinks she feels that way?_ ”

Bertie marvelled at her lack of comment; he was entirely too grateful to her to even properly express it. “No, not really. I did remark it on previous occasions, though I always tried to make it clear that there was no reciprocation to be had.” 

“ _Is there any way you can speak to her on her own, without fear of being interrupted or overheard?_ ” 

“I’m picking her up in a couple of hours. She had complained about Thomas getting to spend time with me, and I promised her I would remedy that. It was before Thomas hinted at how serious it was; I wouldn’t have done it, otherwise.” 

“ _What are your plans for the day, then?_ ” 

“Does it make a difference?” 

“ _Very much so._ ”

“I had thought about a walk in the grounds at Brancaster, near the river. Peter wouldn’t mind, and there’s no one around for miles. Then a picnic basket, which her mother will have prepared for us, and I would have her back by tea time.”

“ _You’re too gentlemanly for your own good._ ” He heard her sigh and was afraid she meant his plans were a disaster waiting to happen. “ _The good thing about it is that if she tries to run off on you, you’ll be able to catch her quickly._ ” 

“You think she might run off?” He asked in a panic. 

“ _If you’re very lucky, and she can bring herself not to be overwhelmed by her disappointment and embarrassment in being found out, maybe she won’t. But make no mistake, whichever approach you take, she will be mortified._ ” 

“And which approach would you suggest?” 

“ _Don’t confront her with it immediately; if you do, she’ll feel as though someone tipped you off about her feelings, and she’ll be humiliated every time she’s in the presence of a member of her family. Try to talk to her naturally, as you would any other day; ask her about her day and whatever else springs to mind – you know her well enough to carry a normal conversation with her. It’s very likely that she’ll make an advance of sorts at some point. Not an outright gesture necessarily as much as an attempt at flirting which, for a fourteen years old girl, might be clever and refined, but won’t feel that way to you._ ” It sounded as though she were speaking from experience, but Bertie was too focused on trying not to hurt Lizzie to properly be interested in Edith’s own adolescent crushes. “ _Try not to belittle her. I know you feel she is mistaken in her affections, and that she is misinterpreting what it means to love, but though you are right it doesn’t feel like that to her, and you should not make light of her conviction at any point. That is vital if you are to preserve her affection._ ” 

“Of course,” Bertie said, more to let her know that he was still there, listening to every word she was saying than because he thought she needed to hear him participate in the one-way conversation.

“ _Still, when she does make her advance, that’s the moment you should speak to her. Kindly, and as if she were a woman rather than a child, but still firmly. There needs to be no doubt in her mind about your intentions. If there is but one glimmer of hope left in her mind, she will cling to it and never move on. This is why it is vital that you should not turn her down on anything but the true reason why you’re not comfortable with this. There should be no talk of your feelings for anyone else, of her parents or her siblings, nothing even about the age difference between you two. Tell her the truth, I know for a fact you’re not shy about sharing your feelings, so don’t start today with her. She won’t thank you for it later._ ”

She had glossed twice on the fact that he was in love with her, of course, but it bolstered his spirits to know she at least understood the depth of his feelings, even though she was still clearly reluctant to acknowledge them. At any rate, he would have to pick a better day to discuss that specific topic with her, possibly one when they were facing each other and he could let her know with all of himself – body and soul – just how much he truly loved her. They said their goodbyes, and she made him promise he would report on how the meeting had gone that evening if he could manage it. Bertie was more than happy to make that one concession.

When he left the house, he was less apprehensive than he thought he might have been; despite the fact that he still had a highly uncomfortable objective to achieve, he didn’t feel as though he was about to ruin one of the relationships that were dearer to him, and it was all thanks to the woman he loved. Bertie arrived a little earlier than he had said, and spent some time with the rest of the children as he waited for Elizabeth to get ready, somewhat dreading the moment she would come through the door of the living room, for it would probably be with an elaborate dress or hairdo that might not have meant anything to him a couple of weeks before, but was now the bearer of a very clear message.

“Will we get our turns soon, as well?” George asked.

“Not too soon, I’m afraid,” Bertie answered, slightly chagrined. “I’m going to London on the 9th, and then I have some work to do on the estate. I think maybe next month, if that’s not too far. Definitely before school starts again, how’s that?”

Margaret and George exchanged a look before she spoke. “Would it be easier if we both came at the same time? One day for just the two of us.”

“It would, yes,” Bertie agreed. “But only if you’re sure. I know you like to do different things, and I don’t want you to have less of a good time than your siblings. Not if it is because you think it would be a burden to me. You’re never that, nor will you ever be.” That earned him two hugs in once, and a pat on the shoulder from Thomas, who seemed determined to act more like a man and less like a boy with each passing day.

“You’re the best, Uncle Bertie,” George said, his voice muffled from his mouth’s position against Bertie’s midsection.

“Don’t tell your parents that, or else they’ll ban me from the house.”

So focused was he on the two youngest siblings, that he didn’t notice Elizabeth coming into the room until she announced her presence. “Hello, Uncle Bertie. I’m ready.” 

She was wearing her wardrobe’s best; a floral, white and light purple, sleeveless cotton dress overlaid with transparent tulle layers that gave it an added exuberance, coupled with a felt hat that Bertie suspected she had borrowed from Ada. Bertie was not overly verbose on matters of fashion, but he knew well enough from Edith’s occupation that Elizabeth was wearing something quite fashionable, and though he’d only describe it as pretty, it was clearly a mark above that at the very least. He knew for a fact Elizabeth hadn’t bought it for church, considering it was sleeveless, and hoped she hadn’t made the purchase with the express purpose of showing her blossoming figure to him, of all people. It set his mind at unease to think as much, but if the way in which Thomas’ jaw kept contracting, a signal that he was grinding his teeth, and in which Ada was looking markedly apprehensive were any indication, Bertie rather thought it was.

Not wanting to embarrass her, however, he smiled, let go of the two youngest, and said his goodbyes. “Let’s go, then.” His smile was as easy and normal as he could make it, and only when Elizabeth had her back turned to him and he was passing Ada did he dare squeeze his friend’s hand in a silent sign of reassurance as she passed him the picnic basket she had prepared. Ada nodded and left a kiss on his cheek in silent thanks. 

He had taken the car to arrive to the grounds more quickly, and used the time behind the wheel to regain his resolution. The excuse of watching the road was enough not to have to gaze at her as she probably was at him. 

The conversation, despite the underlying awkwardness that Bertie could not truly chase away, was as easy and flowing as he thought it ought to be. She asked, as she often did, about his social activities more than his work, but he didn’t mind in the least. He told her about London, most of the times, of visiting a night club or a fancy restaurant, but it had been over a month since he had been there with Edith, so there was nothing really new to report on that front; instead, he elected to tell her about Henry and Charlie, and the fact that they had invited him to a race. 

“That sounds quite daring,” she commented even as they came to a stop at Brancaster’s garage. There was no driver currently in residence, since Peter was not around, and Bertie could park his car without trouble. 

“It is, rather,” Bertie agreed. “Daring and extremely dangerous, I suppose. It doesn’t take away from the fact that it is quite exciting, too. There’s something about risk that draws men and women alike to it. I suppose danger is exciting until its reality comes staring us in the face.” 

“Is that why you’re going? For the excitement of it?”

“I suppose,” Bertie said, as he indicated her the way to go to reach their intended walk. “Then again, I might just need to get out of the house a little more often than I’d like to say.” 

“Is Great Auntie Mirada not treating you well?”

Bertie smiled, for all her stern demeanour, Mother had taken quite a shine to Harry’s children, Elizabeth and Margaret especially. She had known Harry since he and Bertie were children, and had more than once berated them on their afterschool activities, considering them too boisterous, as any mother was wont to do. Harry had invited her and Father to his wedding, and to the christenings, of course, but also for the holidays when Bertie had been away and, especially, during the War. After Cousin William’s passing, with Peter’s prolonged absences from Brancaster, there had been an increasing number of visits between Bertie’s family and Harry’s, which meant that the children had grown used to Mother’s presence, until the point where calling her Mrs Pelham had become absurd, and because Bertie was ‘Uncle Bertie’ to the children, his mother had to necessarily be ‘Great Auntie’. 

“She treats me like a prince,” Bertie answered. “Which is really the whole problem.” 

“Why?” Elizabeth asked in a rather puzzled voice. 

“Because sometimes it’s good to be considered an adult, and no prince ever is – not to his mother, at the very least. I need independence, and the possibility to grow beyond my mother’s shadow.” 

“Is that why you have been going to London more frequently lately, then? For some independence?”

“Not quite,” Bertie answered honestly. “No, I’ve gone to London for business and pleasure alike, and found that I had missed being far from home. I wouldn’t go back to the Army, but I would like to have my own spaces. Or at least more space than the one I have now.” 

“You never talk much about the Army.”

“No, I don’t suppose I do. What would you like to know?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something about why you joined, and what it was like.”

“I grew up between two worlds,” he said, with an honesty he wasn’t sure he actually needed to display. “Which meant I was truly homeless. There was no place for me amongst the peers, certainly, but Cousin William first and Cousin Peter after him have always treated my family as such. All the parties and the fancy dresses, they’re all well and good, but it left me with absolutely nothing in my hands because at the end of the night, I would always go back to being Bertie Pelham, third cousin once removed of Peter Pelham, future Marquess of Hexham, with no prospect in life beyond that which I myself was going to create.

“And then there was the other world, the one where I went to school and lived my everyday life, with children who were far rowdier and knew each other from the street and farms, unlike me. I was made an outsider there too. Indeed, had it not been for your father, I would have truly been an island unto myself. He gave me a place to rest where there was none that I could see. Much like Cousin Peter did here at Brancaster.”

Bertie looked at the grounds he was walking, the expanse of green surrounding him on all sides, the sky, clear and sunny for once, reflected on the stream that was now just approaching his view. He had long since stopped looking for a physical _place_ , and instead had aimed his sight inward, to realise that his safe haven, unlike Peter’s, resided within himself, in the knowledge of his being purposeful, of heading towards something with a calm and resolute attitude. Still, as the grounds of the Castle closed in on him even as they projected him outwards, into an apparent infinite, Bertie couldn’t help but rethink about something Edith had told him, to which he had agreed wholeheartedly: _“If I had Brancaster Castle, I’m not sure I’d ever want to leave.”_ It haunted him at times, on many different levels. First of all, because he had fled his entire adult life from it, only to return and find that Brancaster was exactly where he’d found the most joy. Secondly, because it implied that he’d always live in Peter’s shadow, in the knowledge that all he was would always be contingent on someone else’s property; even though that someone was one of the two men he cared most about, it didn’t change the simple fact that Bertie’s life was not truly his own. And finally, though it pained him to admit it, it disturbed him to know that he was offering a life bound to manacles for which he had no keys to a woman whose independence and initiative he regarded so highly. 

“Uncle Bertie?” Elizabeth prodded tentatively.

“Sorry, I just became lost in thought.” He smiled and took up his narrative again. “You might not know this, but your Great Uncle Charles was in the Army himself. He received a serious injury that impacted his health and that meant he could no longer do any job requiring physical strain, but he was always proud of his time in the Army. I suppose, growing up with this background, it felt natural that I should look there to find somewhere I could call my own. Besides, Mother had raised me with a very strict discipline, so I was very adept at following orders. And, as it turns out, at giving them as well.” 

Bertie proceeded to give a recount of his military career. Though it was necessarily an abridged version of it, and he glossed over the cruder aspects of war, he didn’t leave everything out because he didn’t want Elizabeth to grow up with a romantic idea of what it meant to be a soldier. There was no heroism that he could truly purport to her, at any rate; he remembered with too much clarity the overwhelming fear that came with every new dawn to make it sound as if shooting against the enemy was anything other than an exercise in suppressing one’s fears and praying to the Lord as vehemently as possible that your life would last that little while longer. But he also talked about his sojourns in Peshawar and Bombay, for he knew she needed to hear more than simple recounts of people dying left, right and centre. He had never been one for warmer climates and the stifling humidity of the Indian colonies, but there was enough exoticism about them that even he could make them sound slightly intriguing, if not downright exciting. 

The topic carried them all the way to the spot Bertie had thought most appropriate to stop and have lunch, though it was still a bit early for it. She didn’t have a parasol to shade her from the sun, so he thought it a good idea to take shelter beneath the shadow of an oak.

“Well, enough about me. What about you? What are your plans for the future? We haven’t talked about that since you were a little girl intent on becoming the next Jane Eyre.” 

Elizabeth blushed somewhat, even as she played with blades of grass at her feet. He had laid down a nap for them to sit on, so that their clothes didn’t get stained, but her hands had reached downwards immediately as she had sat. “I guess I still like the idea of writing, except I’m not really exceptional at it.” 

“From what your father tells me, that’s not exactly true, is it? You seem to win best prize at every writing competition at the school.” 

“Well, yeah,” Elizabeth admitted. “But it’s really just a school, and whenever I re-read something I’ve written, I realise I’ve either copied someone else’s style and ideas or there are a thousand things wrong with it. It’s very frustrating.” 

“Have you thought about other kinds of writing? Maybe something journalistic or along those lines, at the very least. If writing truly is your passion, that is. Because, you know, the modern world is full of opportunities if only you care to take them.” 

Elizabeth nibbled on her lower lip, still focusing her gaze on the grass rather than Bertie himself. “I didn’t tell either Mum or Dad, but I think that I would much rather critique than write.” 

“Why would you not tell them? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Finally, she looked up to look into his eyes. “Because I don’t want them to think I’m doing that because I’m not good enough to write.”

“Well, they won’t hear it from me. But if you trust me, you’ll tell them yourself. It’s very difficult to become an accomplished critic; it requires a fine eye for detail as well as a broad knowledge and understanding of literature and history.”

“You truly think so?”

“I do, and I’m sure your parents would tell you the same exact thing. And I’ll tell you something more; if you’re quite serious about this, I’ll ask Peter to let you borrow some books from Brancaster’s library, and I’ll look into your options when next I’m in London for more than two seconds.”

Elizabeth’s face lit up in happiness, and she threw herself at him with such enthusiasm that Bertie was thrown backwards, until he laid with his back down, separated by the ground only by the cloth of the nap. With her upper body pressed into his side, Bertie couldn’t help but feel the accelerated beat of Elizabeth’s heart and the way she was trembling even as she held on to him with vigour. She murmured her thanks on his neck, and Bertie had to take a steadying breath in anticipation of what he had to do. He patted her carefully on her back before he gently pushed her once more to a sitting position, and followed her. He took care to make sure that she didn’t get too close, and immediately took his hat in hand to place it back on his head. 

The blush in her cheeks could not be attributed to any natural flushing, and Bertie had to do his utmost best to control his instinct of looking at her with pity. “Elizabeth,” he started. “I think we need to talk.” 

Her eyes, which were small and oval, widened until she appeared like a curious owl, rather than the frightened girl she was. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing up till now?” 

“I’m not putting this off,” Bertie declared. “It won’t help you for me to do it, and you don’t deserve for me to be unkind to you, so don’t try to change the subject, all right?” 

Elizabeth nodded. “You’re not offended, are you? Because I’m so young, I mean. Or not pretty enough.” 

There was a plea in that whisper, and Bertie had to struggle not to succumb to the impulse to physically comfort her. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that you’re not pretty enough for anyone, but this has nothing to do with your age or your beauty, Lizzie.” 

“Is it about–” 

He stopped her before she could make Edith’s name. “It’s about no one and nothing at all. Listen to me carefully. You are a lovely young woman, and you will grow to make a man very happy in your future, I’m sure. But that man won’t be me, it _can’t_ be me. You are the closest thing I have to a daughter, you and Margaret, and I love you so very much, but not in the way you think you want me to.” She looked at him pleadingly, and it did break his heart to hurt her so. “You see me as some kind of hero, you idealise me to the point where I can do no wrong in your eyes, and that’s all very well and good, but it makes you look at me as the man of your dreams. And I’m not. You think you’re in love with me, but the person you desire is a man who doesn’t exist, Elizabeth. I’m not an adventurer, and I’m certainly not a prince. I am as boring as George thinks me.” 

“You only say that because you don’t want to hurt me,” Elizabeth said even as tears began to flow down her eyes, uncontrolled, and she averted her gaze. “Because either Mum or Dad told you to let me off gently.” 

“Neither of your parents has a clue about what I’m saying right now; and neither of them will ever need to know we had this discussion, unless you want to tell them yourself.” His reassurances didn’t do much in stopping her tears, even though he’d wished they did. “The first time I thought I’d fallen in love, I was thirteen. It was with my English teacher. When I told Cousin Peter, he asked me about her, about who she was and why I was in love with her, and I realised that I was mistaken, but I had spent an entire year pining after her in silence before that.” 

“But I know you! You can’t deny that.” 

“You know a part of me, yes. The part that is confident and full of love for you and your siblings. But you don’t know me as I am, wholly flawed and broken. And that’s because I don’t want you to know me as I am in my entirety; I want you and your siblings to think me as pure as I want your lives to be. I love you all too much to ever let you know how the world has changed me.” He was met with silence, intermittently broken by her heaving. He hadn’t imagined it would be easy, but he had not necessarily envisioned this either, her quivering frame just an arm’s length away, and the knowledge that his comfort was not going to be helpful in any way, not even if she were to ask for it herself. “I’ll give you some time to calm down alone,” he said eventually, in a soft whisper. “I’ll be within hearing distance, so that when you feel better you can call me and tell me what it is you want to do, whatever that is. Take all the time you need.”

Bertie walked a small distance away, keeping Elizabeth firmly within his sight as well as hearing range, even though he remained concealed from her view. He didn’t mean to be disrespectful or invasive, but he was slightly worried that what Edith had told him he should likely expect, her fleeing, would actually happen. They might not have been in the middle of the moors, but that didn’t mean the terrain could not be vicious if one was careless – or emotionally strained. 

He remained standing, statuary, for what must have been twenty minutes or so, before she called out to him. He went to join her, sitting down beside her again only with her encouragement. “We’ll have lunch, now, and then we’ll keep walking like we had planned.” Bertie gave her a reassuring smile, understanding what effort it had taken her to say such strong words with so little hesitation. 

He started talking, too, about matters that had no personal ramification, but that weren’t so clear attempts at redirecting attention that ended up making the whole situation even more awkward. He started talking about Ellen Wilkinson, of whom he knew a lot on account of the fact that Edith had been raving about her very much lately – which was an interesting thing indeed, considering the woman was a Labourist and a socialist (Bertie suspected Miss Edmunds was to blame for this particular turn of Edith’s interest). The one thing Bertie didn’t follow too closely – though not superficially enough to the point of being ignorant on the topic – was the political scene; there were too many people clamouring for attention and too few people with good ideas at the top, as far as he was concerned. Still, Ellen Wilkinson appeared to be just the topic to drag Elizabeth out of the anguish Bertie’s words had thrown her into, and before too long had passed, she squeezed his hand briefly and quickly, muttering a covert ‘thank you’. They were going to be all right.


	12. Love is the only gold (part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The weather has been mostly bad for the day, which means that instead of going out I'm publishing the new chapter at a more reasonable time this week. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Stay safe, everyone!

_10 July, 1925_

Things had started badly from the get go, on Thursday, his train having been delayed for an hour. He had feared he would miss the race altogether, and though his chief reason to go had been to see Edith rather than Henry and Charlie, he had still wanted to be there to cheer the two men on. Of course, in hindsight, a part of him wished that his train had been stuck in that tunnel for well over an hour. Bertie was acquainted with death on a very intimate level, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he should like it any more for being used to it. Indeed, Charlie’s death had reignited a heavy, sinking fear at the pit of his stomach, the feeling that Death never was content to take people one at the time – it might have been a leftover from the War, but Bertie was no calmer for that thought.

The desperation in Henry’s voice, his struggle to get Charlie out from underneath the overturned and burning car, had brought back the memories of many a man trying to get their comrades’ lifeless bodies away from the dirt in which they laid. It had taken Bertie and Tom’s combined strength to move Henry away from the burning car, his dogged determination, fuelled by desperation and the strongest of denials, providing his body with much more force than the one it actually possessed.

Bertie still remembered the haunted look on Lady Mary’s face. The way she had gone paler than she already was. The hand, coming up to cover her mouth… he had not been too surprised, after the dinner, when he had overheard Tom whisper in Edith’s ear that Mary had gone to bed after breaking up with Henry. With a husband dead of a car crash, and the memory of it brought so vividly before her eyes, was it any wonder that Lady Mary didn’t want anything at all to do with Henry, whose job was racing what Lady Mary believed to be her enemy? He had kept silent, of course, because it was not his place to speak or to indeed have an opinion on the subject, but as he spied Edith from the corner of his eye, all he could think about was his need to comfort her, to make her feel protected, shielded from the world and all its dangers.

And he wanted her to know how much he loved her before anything could happen to him. That, unfortunately, was the honest truth. Bertie had felt Death brush his shoulders before, and he had no intention of allowing it to have its win; he would marry Edith before it could claim his life or, God forbid, hers.

Miss Edmunds, as it turned out, stayed only as long as it took Tom to announce that he was going upstairs to bed, saying she felt too much like she had overstayed her welcome. Bertie, unlike Edith, had understood her reluctance to even come to dinner in the first place; it was obvious to him that Miss Edmunds was too little knowledgeable of the ways of the aristocracy to be comfortable around them in a time such as this. The strained conversation filled with platitudes and as little emotion as possible wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

Bertie had waited for Edith to come back to the drawing room, once everyone else was gone, and then had taken her into his arms, comforting her – she had been shaken, however much she liked to pretend otherwise, and Bertie had no qualms about acknowledging that in her proximity. They had soon gravitated to the sofa, and she had made herself comfortable within his personal space. Bertie had had no objection. They had transitioned from softly spoken words to silence regularly and effortlessly. Until midnight had struck, and Bertie had made his move to go. Everything else after that had been beyond his mind’s control; his words and his actions feeling foreign, as though led by a different entity than himself.

She hadn’t said yes, of course, but something in her answer and her request to take Marigold with her had told Bertie that there was more than a little reason to hope. That, and she had kissed him, of course. She had looked so earnest and willing, and Bertie was convinced that she had wanted to say yes. He didn’t know what had stopped her, though he had an inkling about it, and maybe he should have gone to her father first, to ask his permission, but the truth was he didn’t think Lord Grantham approved much of him as a prospective husband for his daughter, and Bertie was in no two half minds about the fact that Edith wouldn’t take it well if her father didn’t give his blessing. He remembered all too well Sybil’s story with Tom; for all the independence Edith had acquired in her life, she wouldn’t like being separated from her family. She had told him about Lord Grantham’s opposition to her relationship with Michael – and how the man had won him over by getting one over a cheat. Bertie couldn’t help but think that Michael had had an advantage over Bertie in his finances, at the very least. With Michael, Edith wouldn’t have wanted for anything. And though she had enough to keep herself settled thanks to Michael’s inheritance and her job at the magazine, she still wouldn’t be living anywhere near as glamorous a life as she was used to with him. Bertie hoped his love would truly be worth something in the equation, and not just for Edith.

He left the sofa with reluctance, but with a dogged determination that he would not think negatively on his future. He was done commiserating himself; there was no attractiveness in a self-pitying man. He walked to Hexham House, feeling nauseous at the thought of boarding any motor vehicle. The brisk night air helped to clear his head, and sharpen his focus. If it weren’t so very late, he would go back to Edith and just ask her to stay with him for as long as eternity; he was spent and hurt. He didn’t really know why it had taken him so long to register that he had lost a friend, though admittedly not the closest he had. He had liked Charlie, truly liked him, and there was no sense to his death; he had died too young, though not as young as many soldiers who had fought alongside Bertie. Unlike them, though, he had not been fighting, he had been having fun. Bertie wondered if it was worth it, dying in the fulfilment of happiness. It might not appear so to those left behind, but Charlie would have possibly said yes. At least, he had gone to his end without the regret of not having followed his dreams because he had been ruled by fear instead.

He suddenly thought of Peter, basking in the Moroccan sun, painting and smiling, as he often imagined his cousin. And maybe happiness truly could not be garnered through other people’s approval, or indeed through their love; happiness needed to be found within to be enjoyed without one’s self. Maybe that was the reason why Bertie didn’t need to find a purpose to his life, because what he wanted was not a title or a successful career; he had already found his animus, and it was to build a family with a woman he loved and who loved him in return. That was why he was so quintessentially happy with Edith; because she gave him that which he most yearned for. Yes, that had to be it. That had to be his _place_. His body, as it were, enveloping the woman of his desires in his arms, the thought of a future with her solid as reality.

* * *

_11 July, 1925_

He had had Henry’s card with him, it had been easy to call him up and talk to him the following morning, after he had had some time to rest. The man had been wretched for too many reasons, but Bertie had decided not to mention his knowledge of his broken relationship, focusing instead on Henry’s loss of his friend. Bertie hadn’t offered his help, since he hadn’t thought there was much to do in occasions such as those to really help, but he had asked Henry about the funeral, and whether it would be all right to go. Henry had given him the exact time and place of the service, and thanked him for the support.

Charlie was from Gateshead, which had meant that Bertie’s plans to return home on the day after the race had not had to be adjusted to fit the funeral, since it was going to be held at Saint Cuthbert’s church. Bertie didn’t know anyone besides Henry, but felt it inappropriate to meet the man in the front row even just to extend his condolences once more. Instead, he attended the service in the back of the church, and then paid his respects to both Charlie’s family and Henry at the exit. Henry accepted his words, his face stony and seemingly unperturbed, and Bertie struggled to reconcile the man in front of him with the broken human who had screamed and shouted, and absolutely _refused_ to accept that Charlie was gone just two days before. There was no sense of decorum that could truly explain this lack of willingness to express one’s emotions in front of others. How much could one be expected to hold pain inside before bursting to pieces? Bertie was reminded of the last weeks with his father, the inability to pretend that everything was normal forcing him to often go to his room to take intervals of honesty – moments when he did not have to fear the overwhelming sense of sorrow that had been his constant companion since his mother’s letter had reached him in Germany. There must have been some foreign blood in Bertie’s veins, because he just wasn’t born as cold and collected as the rest of his compatriots.

Bertie had stayed until the body had been buried, before he had made his escape. There would have been little he could have truly done to ease these people’s pain – he had seen a couple of the people at the race, he thought, but they didn’t know him from Adam, so there really was no point in forcing himself into stiff conversations at the reception. Instead, he had headed towards a far more meaningful place of pain for him.

He hadn’t visited his father’s grave in a while. He tried to go at least once a week, usually after he had been to church, but recently he hadn’t been quite as constant in his frequentation of the church as he ought to have been, and had subsequently neglected his father’s resting place. By the looks of the tombstone, Mother had not been as forgetful, thankfully. The stone was clean, perfectly preserved; it looked as though it could have been laid the previous day rather than a little over two years before. Bertie said a silent prayer to begin with, sent for his father’s soul in the afterlife.

“I asked her to marry me,” he said when he was done. “I haven’t told Mother, and I am unlikely to tell her until I have my answer, but I did want to tell you. You probably know this already, of course, but I just felt like I ought to tell you personally. I haven’t talked to you in a while, and I am sorry about that. I’d tell you that I’ve been frightfully busy if I didn’t know you knew better. The thing is, I have allowed myself to be taken in by life. I have done too many things all at once, and when I have a minute to pause, I only want to talk to her. She’s splendid, Father. You would love her so, I’m sure. And I wish you could get to know her. She makes me feel like the whole world is within my reach, as though I could but close my eyes and wish the Moon down to Earth and it would come.

“It’s ridiculous, I know.” He smiled. “You always told me Peter had made me a bit too lyrical, and maybe that’s true, but he’s a tremendously good chap, and I’m glad I can feel this way about a woman. I know you and Mother loved each other tremendously, and I always admired your devotion to one another, I hope you knew that. You were my role models as a child; I thought if I could but be half the husband you were, then I would have been a perfect one. And now I’ve grown up, and I still think without your example I would have been a poorer man, but I also want to have something different with the woman I love; I want my wife to know I love her like a child loves Christmas morning. And I want my children, _our_ children, to know that as well, to be freer with their affections than anyone in your generation ever was, Father. I hope you will not think ill of me for that.”

He went on to speak to his father for a while yet. He told him about Thomas, and Harry’s and Ada’s worries about his ambitions to become an Army man; he talked about Elizabeth, about the feeling of utter distress he had felt when he had had to break the girl’s heart. He also told him about Charlie Rogers, on how they had become a little more than just acquaintances, and the feeling that Death was never too far away. And he told him more about Edith, because his father would have asked him to; he had always been curious about Bertie’s private life, steadily encouraging, though never too intrusive on the matter (unlike how Mother could sometimes be). He talked about Mother, knowing that it would be important for his father to know that Bertie was taking good care of her. He talked and talked, until he noticed the light dim slightly, which for a summer up north meant it was getting quite late.

He walked home, regretting his elegant shoes and his stuffy suit – though they had of course been inevitable – but not the time spent on his feet, moving from street to field with ease, as he navigated the all too familiar roads. Bertie loved his home; not just the cottage he was living in, but the whole environment that surrounded him, the quiet existence of the villagers, and the blunted intrusion of the modern world upon their lives, which had only marginally achieved its entrance in Northumberland, leaving its lands still largely uncontaminated, and its people very much the same.

When he arrived at the cottage, however, he took a long look at the car, parked unobtrusively on the side of the house, and he decided that he would stop being afraid of it and get back into it the following morning, when he took his mother to church. He would not live his life in fear of something he had used for as long as he had had his car.


	13. Though much is taken, much abides (part I)

_21 July, 1925_

Bertie hadn’t heard from Edith in the days since his proposal. He wasn’t worried, per se, knowing better than to force her hand at making a decision, but when he heard the hurried and forceful rap at his office’s door on the outskirts of the village, his mind immediately rushed to the worst-case scenario involving Edith. He was wholly surprised to find Mr Charlton there, clearly rattled to his core. He appeared flustered and shocked, and before Bertie could even utter a single word of greeting, Mr Charlton was trusting a piece of brown paper in his hands – a telegram.

The earth seemed to tilt on its axis, as Bertie read the few words. The slip of paper fell from his hands, and Bertie felt like fainting. He opened the door further, but instead of inviting Charlton in, he brushed past the butler and heaved on the ground, as far away from the office’s entrance as his legs would take him – which wasn’t far indeed. He couldn’t compute. There had been no signal that this was coming. Peter had been _fine_. He was going to come back in a little over a month to meet Edith, Bertie was finally going to have all the people he most cared about in the world reunited around him. September. He had only to wait until September. Yearnshire had already made all arrangements, of course, they would stop in London for a day, so that they could rest, and then…

“How may I help, Lord Hexham?”

Bertie felt like vomiting again. The tremble in Charlton’s voice, indicating that Bertie wasn’t the only person who had had the world shaken from the ground up that day. Unlike Charlton, though, Bertie didn’t have the luxury of bearing his pain in the open for everyone to see. “I’ll be Mr Pelham for a while still, Charlton. And we need to contact Yearnshire. I don’t care how much money the telegram is going to cost us, but I need to know more about what happened. And I need to figure out how to head there. And Lady Rothbury must be informed also, of course. Before she learns from the papers.” There were too many things to do; the more Bertie spoke the more his mind supplied him with duties incumbent on him. First, he needed to close his office.

He walked inside to find his keys, and his eyes fell upon the solitary slip of paper.

_To Herbert Pelham._

_I regret to inform you that Peter Pelham Lord Hexham was taken ill late last night. He went to bed with a fever and did not wake up. The doctor said malaria. I await instructions._

_Robert Yearnshire_

He picked it up and placed it in its breast pocket. The last thing he needed was for a leak coming from his own carelessness. He didn’t even want to consider how many people already knew; the telegraph operator might have been trustworthy, but he doubted the same could be said about the person who had delivered the message, and it was a guess how far that person had had to walk to reach Brancaster Castle and Mr Charlton and how many people he had encountered on the way. And that was assuming the foreign office in Tangiers had not seen it fit to inform someone back home… there were too many people who couldn’t be trusted, Bertie needed to act quickly if he didn’t want Lady Rothbury and Lady Adele to find out from someone else. It was late, and by the time he’d reach Lord Rothbury’s residence it might be as late as dinner time, but he didn’t care. “Charlton,” he said to the faithful butler. “I will drive to Rothbury Park at once; I need you to inform my mother that some urgent business has come up and I shall not be home for dinner. I do not want news to reach her ear before I am back.”

“Of course,” Charlton agreed. “If you will allow me, Mr Pelham. I do not think you should be driving. We will walk into the village together. I can find you a taxi while you wire Mr Yearnshire, and then I will go to your mother at once.” There was a sense of trepidation in Charlton’s voice, and it told Bertie how much the man was truly shaken that he should let fear overcome his demeanour in any way.

Bertie nodded. “Of course. Oh, and I will come to Brancaster after my visit to Rothbury Park. I should be the one to tell the staff. Unless they already know.”

“I haven’t told anyone. The message was delivered to me personally, and I didn’t think it right to let anyone know before you had had time to take decisions regarding its content.”

It took Bertie minutes to realise he hadn’t reassured Charlton that there wouldn’t be anyone losing their jobs over this. However wretched he felt, Bertie understood that these people deserved some peace of mind, and even though only Charlton knew, at this point, it didn’t change the fact that he, at least, needed to be reassured. “I didn’t think to say it earlier, Charlton, but no one is going to be let go.” He stopped the butler before the man could say that it wasn’t an important matter under the circumstances. “I know it might have not been your primary worry, but if I can give one good news this evening, then let it be this. Lord Hexham wouldn’t have wanted any of you to be treated any worse because of his departure.” He choked on the last word, and hurried his step, looking ahead – it didn’t matter that he was being tremendously rude to Charlton, the mere thought of Peter sent him into a deep depression. He needed to think of every single thing that needed to be done, if for no other reason than because if he stopped for a second, he would be overcome by the pain.

He mentally started to compose his message to Yearnshire, so that by the time he had reached the telegraph office, which was on its way to close, he had just to dictate the words rather than think them up.

_To Robert Yearnshire_

_I will take the first available flight to Tangiers. Charlton is fixing it. I need more information on the body and its transportation. I will settle all economic matters upon my arrival. You are to manage all of Lord Hexham’s affairs until my arrival. Collect all of his belongings leave nothing unattended._

_Bertie Pelham_

There was no room for sentimentality in Bertie’s words. “I want the answer to be sent to Brancaster Castle at once, when it will come tomorrow.” His address had been clipped and peremptory. “And I expect word of this matter not to leave the privacy of this room.”

“Of course, Mr Pelham,” the man in front of him said.

A sudden thought came upon Bertie. He needed to contact Mr Bell in London; they would have to make sure that the matter of the will and the death duty were kept under control. He needed to do it soon, of course, but he couldn’t very well do it now, in the telegraph office, and Mr Bell would soon close his office and go home. He should have thought of it earlier, when he had still been in his own office. Before he could reprimand himself more sternly, Mr Charlton opened the door. “The taxi is here, Mr Pelham. I have taken the liberty of hiring one for myself, as well. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not. I should have suggested it myself, but never mind that.” Bertie followed Charlton out of the office, and approached the taxi’s backseat door. “I will be at Brancaster as soon as I am able, but it shall take me at the earliest three hours, I am afraid.”

“The staff will be ready. If you wish, we might also make up a room for you.”

“No,” he said, a bit too quickly and a little too vehemently. “No, I will need to speak to my mother, and I don’t want to… that is, I can’t occupy the place before it is time. Keep the staff downstairs, I’ll get in from the back entrance.”

Charlton nodded, and went on his own way. Bertie had barely the strength to tell his driver to head for Rothbury Park, before he collapsed in the backseat and tried to close his eyes against reality. It didn’t work, of course, vision being the least involved of his senses in the current matter. He didn’t know what to do; he wasn’t the Marquess of Hexham, he couldn’t be the Marquess of Hexham. He was a land agent, a military man at best; he could give orders and make sure that a business ran smoothly, but he loathed the life of pretence and fake smiles that he had always been subjected to as a child, a spectator to Peter’s life. Making small talk was not his strong suit; he either talked of things that interested him, or didn’t speak at all. And the matter of being revered by men and women who had whispered behind his back when he had shown himself in Peter’s shadow would probably be his undoing. The truth of the matter was, Peter might not have been the best candidate for the title, but he certainly hadn’t been the worst.

Peter… Bertie had tried to push the thought aside, but it just wasn’t possible any longer. Peter was dead. And it tore him in half. Peter had always been his friend; the kindest man Bertie had ever encountered. The love that had bound them together, much like the one that Bertie had always imagined would be between two brothers, had been his constant companion through life. Bertie might not have seen as much of Peter as he had of Harry, but Peter had nevertheless felt immensely more like a brother than Harry ever could – blood or no blood, Peter and Bertie had had each other’s back on a daily basis for years, with a complicity that went beyond even that which had existed between their fathers. Bertie felt a hole inside of him grow and fester, like a wound going into sepsis. And Bertie had no cure for it. Suddenly, he felt as alone as any man had ever been, as if there would never be anyone who would understand him again as Peter had done. He dreaded meeting his mother to tell her the news, because he knew in his heart that she would be happy for him – even as the shock settled. And the Grahams, especially Lady Rothbury and Adele, would be more devastated at the news of Adele’s change in prospects than anything else. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go through the motions of turning Adele down for a prospective marriage, because that would hurt more than he probably could bear, but he would probably have to prepare himself for the eventuality. Indeed, he had to consider what the best course of action as regards to Adele was. Would it help her in any way to know that Peter had been resolute in his intentions to marry her soon? Bertie didn’t think so; after all, she hadn’t been in it for love, much like Peter himself. The only difference for her would be if the engagement had been real, for it would excuse her being a spinster at her age and probably set her for the next big – though not quite as big as Peter – fish. Bertie could probably make that happen, of course, with the words exchanged between himself and Peter as well as the words in Peter’s last letter home, there would be enough evidence to support her case, but it was better to discuss the matter with Lord Rothbury alone.

He had met James Graham on various occasions, and he had been at the very least polite towards Bertie, unlike his wife, who had always resented the fact that a third cousin was closer to inherit her father’s title than her own progeny. Lady Rothbury had always resented the succession line, though it hadn’t exactly been Bertie’s own decision to make it what it was, and thus he should have had little of her resentment aimed his way. Bertie, however, thought that much of the resentment came from the fact that Cousin William and Father had always been very close, and when Lady Rothbury had met Mother, their two strong personalities had clashed, leaving destruction in their wake. Unlike Peter’s mother, who had been much more accepting of Cousin William’s friendship with Bertie’s parents, Lady Rothbury hadn’t inherited her brother’s friendly and kind attitude towards their relations. Still, whatever the nature of the relationship that existed between Bertie and the Grahams, he was about to convey them grave news, and they would all be sorry for it, so there was little point in maintaining the battle standards raised in their presence.

Bertie paid a huge fee for the taxi, but didn’t complain about it. The man had probably expected to drive Bertie back to Hexham as well as bringing him all the way to Rothbury Park, and so it was only fair that he should charge Bertie a little extra for the trouble of travelling such long distance.

Bertie rang the bell to the house, and waited for someone to come and open for him. The man who opened the door was dressed as a footman ready to arrange for dinner, and Bertie gave a quick glance at his wrist watch to realise that it was late enough that dinner might be about to start. “Bertie Pelham,” he introduced himself. “I need to see Lady Rothbury and Lady Adele.”

“I’m afraid, Mr Pelham, that the ladies are changing for dinner. It is too late to pay an unannounced call.”

“I’m sorry, but this business is most urgent. If you could only let them know that it concerns Lord Hexham, I’m sure they would understand.”

The footman nodded. “If you could wait her, Sir, I will endeavour to let someone know of your presence.”

Bertie didn’t dare move from his spot, the hour having drawn nearer when he had to relay his message, his throat was constricting uncomfortably around the words he knew he had to speak.

The footman was back quickly. “Lord Rothbury will see you in the library, Mr Pelham.” Bertie wasn’t familiar with the layout of the house, so he followed the man silently, until he was announced into the room.

“Mr Pelham,” Lord Rothbury greeted him kindly. “I dare say it is a surprise to see you here. What brings you to Rothbury Park?”

Bertie swallowed. “I am sorry to disturb at such an hour, Lord Rothbury, but I thought it best to come immediately.”

His trepidation must have shown because Lord Rothbury’s easy demeanour transformed immediately into something more serious. “Would you like to sit down?”

“I think I’d much rather stand, if it’s all the same to you. And I believe Lady Rothbury and Lady Adele should be here before I say anything.” His host nodded grimly, but still offered him a glass of whiskey. Bertie refused, dreading to think what alcohol would do to him in his state of agitation. He needed to keep all his wits about himself, and the evening was still only at its very beginning, as far as Bertie was concerned.

They luckily didn’t have to wait too long before the ladies came into the room together. “I didn’t believe Michael when he said you were here, Mr Pelham. Why has my nephew sent you here, now?” Lady Rothbury’s tone implied that Bertie was not much more than an errand boy for Peter, and though it hurt his pride to admit it even to himself, he wished that he could answer her question by saying something menial.

“Lucretia,” her husband rebuked her.

Bertie had no time and even less inclination to play her games. “I think you should sit down.”

Whatever her mother had been about to do, Adele must have read something into Bertie’s tone and sombre expression, for she pushed her mother to the closest couch and sat beside her. “I received a telegraph a little over an hour ago, from Mr Yearnshire, Peter’s valet. Peter…” He had still not said the words aloud, and he was suddenly overcome with fear that by speaking them he would be the one to make their message real, to kill Peter. “Peter died some time last night or early this morning. Of malaria.” Bertie removed the telegram from his breast pocket, in case they should want to read it. He was only peripherally aware of the sloshing sound of the whiskey, quickly followed by glass meeting wood in a sudden collision.

“What… wha–” Adele choked. Her mother was clearly too shocked to even comprehend the news, let alone console her daughter.

“I don’t know much more beyond that. Yearnshire wrote that Peter was taken ill last night, went to bed early and never woke up. I have asked for more information, but the telegraph office was closing down, so I won’t hear back before tomorrow morning. I will fly to Tangiers as soon as possible, and will see how to handle the matter there. I just wanted to come and let you know personally because I didn’t think you ought to read it in the papers.” He felt like talking still; if he could only keep talking, then he wouldn’t have to listen to the voice in his mind reminding him of the message that had been written on the telegraph and the pain it brought with its words.

“That can’t be possible,” Adele mumbled, and only the deadly silence which was enveloping the room enabled Bertie to hear her.

Lord Rothbury chose that moment to come back to his senses. He took Bertie aside, and asked him to follow him outside. Bertie did as he was bade, of course, all too aware that at this point privacy was all he could give the two women. Lord Rothbury asked to see the telegram, but gave it back immediately, only taking a second to tell his butler to hold dinner, before leading Bertie to a chair in the entrance hall. “It is sad news of course, and I hope you will not think me insensible, but things have changed, and I cannot pretend they haven’t. You see, there was an arrangement…”

“That _is_ something I wanted to discuss with you. I didn’t want to say it in front of Lady Adele because I am not sure whether she will see it as something that might be seen as positive or a further source of pain for her… The thing is, Peter had discussed with me his intentions of marrying Lady Adele very concretely. He had originally decided to announce his engagement in December, but in his last letter he mentioned his idea to come back earlier, in September, and that he might do it then.”

“There’s physical evidence of the proposed engagement?” Lord Rothbury asked.

“Not as plainly as I am saying it to you now, but I could attest to it, if you thought that would help your daughter’s prospect. Only, if her reasons for not marrying were explained away with her attachment to Peter, it might be better for her. But I also think the idea of knowing that she was quite so close to marriage might upset her personally a lot more.”

Lord Rothbury, who had gleaned at some sort of salvation for his daughter, suddenly looked at Bertie with eyes Bertie had never seen on the man’s face. As if he was suddenly seeing a different person than the stray land agent that everyone thought Bertie to be. “Thank you for your considerateness. You had no obligation to reveal any of this to me, and yet you did, showing great thoughtfulness for my family, and my daughter in particular. I am well aware of the fact that she has not been as kind in her behaviour towards you as she might have been, but you have here shown the depth of your virtue. You have my gratefulness.” There was a pause, and Bertie knew the words before he heard them. “Lord Hexham.”

“Mr Pelham,” he corrected quickly. “Until everything is settled, I shall remain Mr Pelham.”

He was offered to stay for dinner, but he asked for a taxi instead, citing his need to inform the staff at Brancaster, but speaking no word of his own mother. He was given the family chauffeur instead of a taxi, and was sent on his way without having to go back to take his leave from the two ladies of the house.


	14. Though much is taken, much abides (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me apologise greatly for the delay in publishing. I went on a hike yesterday which lasted all day, and by the time I was back home all I wanted to do (and had the energy to do) was take a shower, eat something and crash on my bed. I might have some uploading issues next week as well, since the time to go home is nearing and my day-to-day life is currently a bit unpredictable. I will be back home next Tuesday (not tomorrow), so everything should settle down a bit then. Thanks a lot for your patience, guys!

By the time he had reached Brancaster’s service entrance, he was numb. He couldn’t even feel the pain, anymore. He was tired all over, from the tip of his toe to the crown of his head, and even more so on the inside. He didn’t have to wait for long after he knocked to be let inside. Sarah, one of the maids, showed him in and led him to the servant’s hall, where all the permanent staff was sitting. Clearly, Charlton had told them that Bertie would come to speak to them as a way to keep them all gathered. Even the kitchen staff was there, and Mrs Brennan offered him a cup of tea immediately upon seeing him, but Bertie had no inclination to take it. Charlton gave him his seat and Bertie took it.

There was a deadly silence around him as he settled down, and Bertie tried to be as quick and straightforward as he could. “I have received news, earlier today, that Lord Hexham has died.”

Shock registered clearly on all the faces which had become very familiar to Bertie in the last couple of years especially. Mrs Oliver, despite her age and experience, or maybe because of it, appeared to be more affected than even the maids. Mrs Brennan, who had been standing beside two of the kitchen maids, had to help Lilian, the youngest of the two, to stay upright as her knees seemed to buckle. It was Edward who got out of his chair and lent it to the girl; he had been at Brancaster for the least time – though he was by no means a new face – and appeared to be the less traumatised by the news. Matthew, who had begun his career as a hallboy the same year Bertie had joined the Army, and had raised to the rank of first footman, looked as though he could not compute the information he had been given. All of them, no one excluded, appeared to be truly pained, and Bertie had the sudden urge to cry. He scampered off from the chair, heedless of the sudden attention he had brought upon himself, and went to Charlton’s office, where he broke down in tears.

Peter was dead. And his servants cared about his death more than his aunt and cousin. He wanted to scream, to tear the whole castle down, until its very walls shook with the pain that Bertie was feeling inside, encompassing his entire being. But he couldn’t, because he was going to have to get back to those people, to give them directions, to tell them what they were to expect from the future. And, more than that, he couldn’t because those men and women were going to look up to him and demand that he helm them in the near future. He took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped his eyes clean, wishing more than ever for a lavatory, that he might splash some water on his face and erase all traces of his upset.

There was a soft knock on the door. “I’m coming.” In the time it took him to turn around, the door was open and Mrs Brennan was standing there, her tall and wiry frame appearing ever so fragile.

“Is there anything I can get you?”

She had asked that question so very many times. The first time, he remembered quite clearly, Peter had dragged him down to the kitchens unbeknownst to his nanny, and Mrs Brennan had eyed them suspiciously, but she wasn’t Mrs Brennan, then, she had been Susan the kitchen maid, and she had probably been too scared to rebuke the heir and the little boy running around with him. Peter had given her his best smile, and she had capitulated immediately, asking that question. Peter had bit his lip and asked for “a cookie, please”, and said thank you when she had given him one. Bertie hadn’t dared ask for something himself; true, Peter was kind to him, but that hadn’t been his kitchen, and it hadn’t been his right to ask for anything. But the kind girl had extended the query to him as well, and he had shyly requested a biscuit as well, spurred on by Peter’s delighted face as he chewed on his. Mrs Brennan had given him one, and then had asked them whether they wanted to learn how to make cookies themselves. Both he and Peter had been excited at the prospect, and the whole experience had been made tremendously better by the fact that she had revealed that the recipe was something of a family secret. It had made the two children feel so very special, much more than the idea of being treated like kings of the castle. Mrs Brennan had even hidden them behind her when the nanny had come looking for them in a tiff. And when the woman had left, Mrs Brennan had whispered that she didn’t like her very much because the meals she requested they prepare for Master Peter were never a challenge for her.

Bertie somehow didn’t think a cookie would make this wretched evening any better, but he smiled regardless to the kind woman. “No, but it means a lot that you should ask.”

She nodded, and preceded him to the servant’s hall. There, he found that tears had been shed and dried. “I’m not sure how quickly things will move on from now, but I want all of you to know that you will not be forced out of your positions. There won’t be any changes at all before Lord Hexham’s funeral, but even after that, your roles here are assured. If you wish to leave because you do not feel that you could maintain your posts, that is up to you, and references will be provided that reflect your years of service and dedication. Other than that, you are all more than welcome to stay.”

There was a moment of silence, before Mrs Oliver asked the same question Charlton had before Bertie had gone to Rothbury Park. He denied all invitations to stay, and bid them his goodbye, but not before he had asked for a bike. He didn’t have the patience to wait for yet another taxi, and he needed to be back home sooner rather than later; he still had to talk to his mother.

* * *

He didn’t know what time it was when he actually reached the cottage; the ride from Brancaster had not been short, and he couldn’t even remember to look at his watch to check. Charlton had accompanied him to the bike (lent to him by Hugh), and asked about the plans for the grouse season; Bertie had all but rented the castle for the whole four months; then again, he was sure if he were to consult the calendar closely, he would find the unavailability of Brancaster less dire than he was now thinking it. He had told Charlton that he wouldn’t be likely to cancel any of the lettings, especially since the succession tax would have to be paid. No, the best thing to do would be to keep the letting and, at best, change the rooms that were placed into the hands of the renters; Bertie was sure he would be able to manage to restrict his own presence to out-of-bounds areas for visitors – there were certainly enough rooms in the Castle to make it easy enough. And then, he would do all the things expected of the new Marquess on those days Brancaster was free – he just needed some time to sit down and figure the entire schedule out. Charlton had taken pity on him and let him go, without fussing too much, though Bertie knew he’d have to be more reactive the following day; he couldn’t expect the entire staff to cater to a party of guests and to him separately.

Still, as he walked into the cottage, all of that evaporated. His mother came out of the kitchen when she heard him come in. “Mr Charlton called from Brancaster, told me when to expect you. I made some dinner for you.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said shortly. “We need to talk, Mother.” He didn’t wait for her to acknowledge his request, which sounded very much like an order. Instead, he headed for the living room and sat down on the armchair closest to the fireplace.

“What is it?” Mother asked, with no small trace of worry in her voice.

“Peter is dead,” he answered peremptorily.

“What?”

“Yearnshire sent a telegram. He died some time last night or early this morning. I’ll know more tomorrow.” He finally chanced a look her way when she didn’t answer immediately. She was shocked, that much was quite obvious, and she looked at the very least slightly sad – though Bertie couldn’t be sure. “I know you didn’t care for him.”

“No, I thought he was very ill-suited for his role. And I could never be asked to accept his morality. But you cared a great deal for him, I know this. And though I won’t pretend to like him in front of you now that he is dead, because I’m not a hypocrite, I am not  _ happy _ as you might think me, Bertie. He certainly didn’t deserve to die so young, whatever his inclinations.”

Bertie nodded. He turned his head again towards the unlit fireplace, and tried not to break down in front of his mother. His efforts were all made in vain when she approached him and laid her hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t do this alone. He just couldn’t. He didn’t know how long he repeated that mantra in his head, but at some point he must have also spoken it aloud, because she knelt in front of him, took his face in her hands and looked him steadily in his eyes until he had calmed down enough. “Chin up, Bertie. You have more courage than most men. You will get through this. You are a good man and you are a competent man. And you never have to be alone. I will be with you every step of the way if you so wish.”

Bertie nodded. And tried to straighten his thoughts. He told her all of his plans for the following morning. Calling Mr Bell in London, going to Brancaster to figure out the calendar for the grouse and how it might affect his position as marquess. Finalising his plans to leave for Tangiers was a priority of course, but dependant on Yearnshire’s answer, which he would have to forward to the Rothburys, as the closest relatives of Peter’s. Of course, he would have to be the one to take decisions about the funeral and the burial, but he would be remiss if he didn’t inform Peter’s aunt every step of the way; even though he knew Peter best of anyone alive, except maybe for Yearnshire, Bertie didn’t want to create any trouble with anyone, nor did he wish to tread on anyone’s toes. He knew he would never make everyone happy; after all, everyone who had staked something on Peter being Marquess for any number of years was bound to be disappointed with the change in leadership, but he had no wish for loud remonstrations before he had even laid his cousin to rest.

A sudden thought came upon him; as a land agent, Bertie had only cared for a side of Peter’s finances, but there were other fortunes of which he should now be made aware, and which he ought to keep under close scrutiny. The entire coal business, for once; Cousin William had invested in coal mines in the Acomb region, but Bertie knew very little about that. Then, there was the matter of the two properties Bertie had never had under his tutelage. The seaside house in Newbiggin-by-the-sea, of which his mother was bound to be as expert as anyone alive he knew and trusted, since she had grown up there, daughter of the former manager, and sister-in-law of the current one; Bertie didn’t know his aunt and uncle as well as he ought to, but his mother did, and he would use her to make sure that they didn’t think they could enjoy a larger share of the profits on account of Bertie being the new owner. Things would be rather trickier with the property in Scotland; Bertie knew it existed, but didn’t even know where exactly it was, which posed a greater problem in and of itself. If he didn’t even know what he was going to do with Hexham House, it was unlikely that he would have solutions for a property he had never even visited. There was just too much to do, and Bertie couldn’t do it as quickly as people wished him to. He needed to have an anchor to steady him before he could truly cope.

“Go to bed,” Mother said eventually. “You are exhausted, and you have a long day ahead of you. Please, Bertie, you can’t solve anything now, it’s too late. Just go to sleep and rest for a while.”

Bertie got up on his feet and went to his room. He would undress and wear his pyjamas, and he would lay in bed, but he would forget to take a bath, and he would forget how to sleep until it was four in the morning, and then he would get up from his bed, splash some water over his face (and possibly beneath his armpits and all over his neck), get dressed anew, silently head downstairs to the kitchen, where he would try to boil some water for a cup of tea he would have with a slice of bread, before he headed with the bike to his office to retrieve his car. He would find a way to make the bike stick to his car, somehow, so that he might head to Brancaster at once without having to send Hugh to retrieve it on his own, or making the journey with the footman in the car and then have to send him back to the Castle with it. Once at Brancaster, he would look for Mr Bell’s private telephone, and call the man at his own house, blast the hour, to inform him of the situation and arrange a meeting at the earliest possible time. Then he would get all the papers about every business and property of the Hexhams in his hands, figure out who he needed to call and what arrangements needed to be made, whilst he waited for a telegraph to reach him and for Charlton to tell him when his passage to Tangiers was going to be.

But by the time he was in bed, Bertie could only look at the ceiling and wish he knew what to do to feel less like the world was drifting farther away from him with increasing speed.


	15. Though much is taken, much abides (part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the great delay this week, but I only just returned home, and the past few days of preparation were very hectic and I couldn't even get a second in front of the laptop. That being said, me being home means that updates will definitely be regular from now on. Back to every Sunday. Thanks for your patience, and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

_ 22 July, 1925 _

The papers were full of the news; the  _ Daily Mirror _ had gone so far as publicising Peter’s death in three lines of brobdingnagian proportions on its front page. It was a desecration of any morally acceptable approach to death. Indeed, it was something undeniably news-worthy, but surely even newspapers ought to have been sensitive to grief; to plaster a personal source of pain to some so openly on the public tribunal was an act of pure callousness. It was especially going to affect Bertie for as long as he stayed in Northumberland. Though not many people knew he was the heir to the title, he had been seen in his cousin’s company often enough to become sudden target of gossip and inquiry. Besides, if people knew before he could inform them in his own time, Bertie might suddenly lose all the time he needed to prepare himself to find shelter in studying any given situation to have his own advantages.

Still, as luck would have it, the first phone call Charlton put through, which came at around ten past nine, was from Harry. His best friend gave him his sincerest condolences and gave his support, moral and physical, in any form Bertie might require it – extending the offer to encompass all members of the family, though the only other person who probably knew by that time was Thomas, who had gone into the hospital with his father that morning. Thomas, as it were, spoke to Bertie as well, and the familiarity of the young man who still called him Uncle Bertie was enough to truly relieve Bertie, for it gave him a sense that some things, at the very least, would not be changing too much.

The following interruption to his duties came from a telegram from Yearnshire, which read much more like a letter (punctuation aside), something that would be probably reflected in its cost, but that Bertie could not have been sorry for had he tried.

_ To Herbert Pelham _

_ Lord Hexham’s cause of death is confirmed to be malaria. The doctor said nothing could have been done. The attack was vicious and must have claimed him very quickly. I am only sorry I was not with him at the time. He had sent me to bed. His body has been buried already and nothing I could say to the local authorities could delay that. Moving it can be arranged but it will require exhuming him and then secure special permission to carry him back to England. It should not be too much trouble if you are the one to advance the request I am sure but it is more difficult for a man such as myself. I am taking care of everything as much as I can but I need some assistance. Everyone wants money here and I know paying will not actually achieve anything useful so I am not but it is making things incredibly harder. I think they shall try to prevent my returning with Lord Hexham’s belongings especially the paintings he produced. I have at the very least made sure that they will not steal anything so long as I stay here. I feel I am letting him down somehow and I know you will able to help me at least in this. _

_ Robert Yearnshire _

Bertie didn’t often curse, indeed, even his exclamations were very contained and decidedly not vulgar. He did feel like cursing the entire Moroccan state, in that moment, though. He didn’t even like to think how adrift Yearnshire must feel, being made sole curator of Peter’s affairs in a foreign land; he just hoped the man could hold on long enough, until Bertie managed to reach him.

He summoned Charlton soon thereafter, asking about what progress had been made on his travel plans, and the butler informed him that he had secured passage on a plane for him, that left on the 25 th . It was longer than Bertie might have hoped, but it at least gave him enough time to meet up with Mr Bell. Bertie thanked Charlton and proceeded to call the lawyer in London immediately to arrange a meeting on the day before his flight to Tangiers. After that, he picked up the phone once again to call Rothbury Park to inform them of everything else that Yearnshire had related to him and of the fact that Bertie was bound for Tangiers that Saturday. Having exhausted even that duty, he once again buried his head in paperwork, until he felt confident enough in his grasp of the coal mining business to call the man who had been entrusted with its running, if for no other reason than to let him know that there was little he could do to trick Bertie. He asked for the latest reports to be sent to Brancaster at once, and though Bertie doubted he would have the time to consult them before his return to Northumberland, it helped him feel like he was actually doing something positive for the estate that way. Mr Bell would have all previous reports of the business in his office, and Bertie would take copies with him on his way to Tangiers to make sure nothing was amiss.

He didn’t know how long he had been on the phone with Mr Carr, the man in charge of the mines, but it couldn’t have been more than five minutes after he was done with that call that he received one from Rothbury Park. He had spoken with Lord Rothbury – who now insisted on being called Cousin James – when he had relayed news of Yearnshire’s telegraph, but now it was Cousin Florence – Adele’s younger sister, who had always insisted on being addressed thusly by Bertie – who was on the phone. The girl, who had not relied quite so heavily upon Peter’s existence for her future, and had been married for close to seven years, if Bertie remembered correctly, was calling out of genuine interest for Bertie’s state of mind. He was quite touched by the gesture, since it was the first true act of kindness he had received from the Graham family.

When he put the phone down, he heard it ring immediately, and was tempted to just ignore it. Unfortunately for him, he had been too well educated to follow through with what he actually wished he could have done.

“Brancaster Castle, Bertie Pelham speaking.” His voice sounded tired even to his own ears, and all he could hope for was that the telephone line would mask his voice enough to not let that through.

“ _ Bertie… _ ”

He recognised the voice instantly and was nearly brought to tears by it. “Edith,” he whispered. He had forgotten about telling her, of course, too preoccupied with half a dozen things a minute that needed his attention. Indeed, he had forgotten about her the second he had held the telegram in his hand. And was it any wonder? But now that she was on the line, he wished he could never be parted from her again.

“ _ Tom read the news in the paper. I am so very sorry, Bertie, I know how much he meant to you. _ ”

He nodded, though she couldn’t see him. “The tragedy is, I don’t think many people are going to miss him. No one knew him well enough to. And I feel like everyone is looking at me, waiting for me to put a foot wrong and lose pieces as I go along. And all I truly want to do is take a minute to mourn him. But I can’t even breathe, so how am I supposed to do that?” He kicked himself even as the words poured from his mouth, he didn’t want to sound so whiny to Edith of all people. “Never mind, don’t answer that.”

There was a pause, and he felt the strain of his words settle uncomfortably over them. “ _ What can I do to help? Is there something that needs sorting by someone that isn’t you necessarily that I could take over? _ ”

Bertie gave it some serious consideration, not because he wanted her help so much as because he didn’t want to make her feel like he was dismissing her outright. And then a thought he hadn’t even considered yet popped into his head. “His valet wrote to let me know that they’ve already buried Peter. And I’m not sure what to do about that. I feel like he ought to have a funeral here at home, but the thought of exhuming his body is ghastly. It would have been an easier decision to make if he hadn’t been already interred, but as it is…” He might not have given it a second’s thought, if he had arrived in Tangiers to find the body preserved in Peter’s room, but he was forced to now. “Peter loved Tangiers, he was happy there, and he would probably love to rest there forever. But his place should be at Brancaster, with all his family. Beside his mother and father.”

“ _ How soon must you make a decision? _ ”

“I suppose by Saturday, that’s when I’ll get to Tangiers. I will stay there a couple of days, maybe, but I should make up my mind before then to make arrangements.”

“ _ I would like to help you, Bertie, but I didn’t know your cousin and I shouldn’t like to voice an opinion on something like this. _ ”

“No,” he agreed. “Of course not. I was mostly just talking to myself, really. Only I’ve been so busy with everything else I didn’t really have enough time to think about that until just now. For all I wish it didn’t have to be like this, it necessarily has to.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “ _ Do you think it would do you good to come down here, to take your mind off of things before you have to leave? _ ”

Tears he had promised himself he would no longer shed pooled in his eyes. “Do you mean that?”

“ _ Yes. And I’ll make sure the car doesn’t have any problem this time around. _ ”

He gave her a choked laugh. “I have to be in London on Friday, I have a meeting with the lawyer at three in the afternoon, and I should check into Hexham House, though Lord knows nothing really has changed there. And, of course, I can’t leave today because I have too many things to take care of.”

“ _ Then take the first train tomorrow morning. You’ll stay the night and leave the day after. _ ”

“I didn’t even think I needed to come to see you before you called,” he whispered. “And now I can’t think why I didn’t propose this myself.”

There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line. “ _ Well, your mind was otherwise occupied. _ ”

He said his goodbyes soon after that, wishing for all the world he could tell her how much he loved her, but leaving the sentiment unsaid on account of the fact that she had still not answered his question – his  _ proposal _ . He didn’t truly think she’d deny him now, not when the one barrier that had stood between them had fallen quite so completely–

Bertie turned his eyes from the telephone and his mind from the matter altogether. The mere thought that Peter’s death had any advantage to him made him feel sick to his stomach. He was better off thinking of what prospects the cottages in Plockton had (it turned out rather than a single mansion, the Hexhams owned a series of small cottages in Scotland). Bertie had never even heard of the village before, so he was doubtful as to its value. Then again, the cottages had been in the family property since the second Marquess, Cousin William’s and Bertie’s own great-grandfather, so it stood to reason that it might actually produce more income than Bertie could foresee. As it were, it was turning out to be a good enough distraction from his mind’s lapse in taste.

* * *

_ 23 July, 1925 _

He was packed and ready to go; he had taken with him all his lighter clothes, in anticipation of his trip to Tangiers, and two sets of suits other than the one he was currently wearing, one for the following day and one for his return on British soil. He had told his mother five times, with an increasingly admonishing tone, that he did not want her to get anywhere close to Brancaster in his absence. He loved his mother, but he didn’t trust her to restrain herself from butting in while Bertie wasn’t there to make it apparent that she ought to still be in mourning for Peter. Neither of them was going to wear black before the memorial service (the night had brought him the necessary council to capitulate to the truth of the fact that of all the places in life, Peter would want to rest in his  _ place _ , and that was Tangiers), but that didn’t mean he should feel the loss less keenly. The staff at Brancaster, as far as Bertie had seen, had all worn a black band around their arm since the previous day, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they kept it long after his return to Brancaster. He appreciated the gesture immensely, even more so because Mrs Oliver had presented him with a band to take to Yearnshire when Bertie reached Tangiers, “just in case he hasn’t managed to secure one.” Bertie would resurrect the one he had worn after his father’s death for when he would switch from full-mourning to half-mourning.

He left for Downton on the first train, and kept his focus entirely on the business he was going to discuss with Mr Bell, while on it. The matter of the will was not a small business, and then Bertie wanted to ask Mr Bell to settle a meeting with the tax people who were sure to be knocking on Bertie’s door sooner rather than later. Peter had been a millionaire, and that meant that Bertie was going to be made to pay for it with an amount of money he had only ever glimpsed at while doing Brancaster’s balance sheet. Mr Bell had already set aside all documentation on the mines owned by Lord Hexham, and the cottages in Scotland, as well as the seaside hotel in Newbiggin. Bertie had asked his mother to keep an eye on that particular property, and she had assured him that she would go to see her sister in his absence, to get a proper handle on things; for the time being, she had assured him that Aunt Hilda could be trusted, to lay his mind at rest. It had helped Bertie more than he had anticipated. It was, after all, one less thing to constantly worry about, and in his current predicament, that was more than he could truly hope for.

Edith came to pick him up at the train station, only this time there was no delay; she was already there when he arrived. The station wasn’t really crowded, so Bertie allowed himself to walk into her personal space and take her in his arms. He felt her own arms circling him, and he leaned further in the embrace than he would have normally done in public. “Thank you,” he whispered.

They disentangled slowly and gradually, and she didn’t leave him entirely bereft, but kept her hand in his as they walked behind the porter who was carrying his luggage to the car. Bertie kept his eyes focused ahead the whole time, until they were left alone and inside the car. Then, finally, he allowed himself to look at her again.

“I don’t know what to say to make you feel better,” she admitted.

He did, but he didn’t tell her. Not yet, not while they hadn’t even made it outside the station proper. “Just having you nearby is enough. You have truly no idea how much you’re helping me just by caring as much as you do.”

She took his hand in hers for a moment, and then she placed her left hand on the stick and the right on the wheel and began driving. “You know, in all of this, I think that the thing I’ll regret the most is that the two of you will never get to meet, now. He was so looking forward to it, as well. He was going to come home in September just so I could finally introduce the two of you. I received the most excited letter he ever sent me just at the beginning of the month, where he told me he was going to change all of his plans for a chance to get to know you before…” he discontinued his sentence before he could say something too hastily. “He would never come back during the height of summer, he said it felt too stifling, even though Tangiers is twice as hot as England ever shall be. Peter always was a bit of an oxymoron.”

“Tell me more about him; I feel like I only know his edges, but the rest of him is blurred. And I want to understand this man that was so very dear to you.”

Bertie smiled. It was a bittersweet smile, of course, one filled with regret for a future he had envisioned now perished at his feet, but also one made of memories of great happiness and love. He had loved Peter and shared with him some of the best memories of his childhood; remembering him would always feel good, and maybe he wouldn’t be able to share him with Edith in flesh and blood, but he could bring him back to life with his words if only he decided to. The car drive wasn’t exactly long, though, and by the time they had arrived, Bertie had only managed to tell her about the first time he had met Peter, and the fun they had had together, bypassing the shyness and the embarrassment that adults felt when meeting someone for the first time, with their childish innocence.

Then, it was time to chin up, and keep a steady resolve. Andrew and Mr Bates both were there to help with his luggage, which meant that Bertie didn’t even have to take the bag with his documents with him, for they took care of everything between the two of them. He only had to follow Edith into the library, where he met her parents and her aunt, and he nearly made an idiot out of himself. He could see with absolute clarity that Lord Grantham had been made uncomfortable by Bertie’s nearly allowing himself to cry in front of them, and was eternally grateful for Edith’s hand on his back steadying him. He didn’t tell her, and probably never would, but when Lady Grantham had said Peter would have been glad that Bertie was to be his successor, his first reaction had been to think that she was trivialising Peter’s death on account that she was happy her daughter was no longer on the brink of engagement with a land agent but rather with a marquess. A king of the county ready to make her a queen.

Bertie had shoved the notion in the furthest recesses of his mind, knowing that no good would come of him going down that line of thinking, but the fact of the matter was that his life would now be accompanied by the perennial doubt of whether or not the people who circled him did so because they liked him or because they were, much like vultures circling a moribund body, awaiting for the opportunity to get their share of the spoils Bertie was sure to leave in his wake at the first wrong move. Now, more than ever, he was glad for having had the chance to grow up a normal person with normal friends. At least in them, he could be certain of a sentiment of true affection rather than one of predatory instincts.

Edith accompanied him to his room, but before she could leave, he held her hand and made her follow him inside. Mr Bates was already there sorting through Bertie’s suitcases, so nothing improper could be attributed to her keeping him company in a bedroom.

“Lord Hexham,” Mr Bates greeted him.

“Mr Pelham,” Bertie corrected him without any of the animosity he had displayed in the previous day and a half when people had made the same attempt at titling him before Bertie had decided would be right. “I will remain Mr Pelham until my cousin has been mourned publicly.”

Bates nodded peremptorily. “My sincerest condolences.”

There was a moment of silence where the two men’s eyes met. “Thank you, Bates.” He felt Edith’s hand squeeze his before she let go and found an inconspicuous place to stay while he directed Bates on what to do with his things. He wanted to keep most of his luggage packed, since it made little sense to take out things that he would only use in Tangiers.

Once he was done, Bates took his cane, which he had left on the bedpost, and made to leave. “If you require anything at all, I am at your service, Mr Pelham.”

Bertie nodded, but he had no strength to give any more words – of gratitude or otherwise. The defences he had erected around himself, which had thus far more or less resisted all internal and external assault, suddenly crumbled, and he broke down in uncontrolled sobs, his last moment of self-regimentation spent in sitting down on the bed, his shoulders facing the door which had been left ajar. He felt Edith immediately reach his side, and she took his head in her arms, directing it against her midsection, as she came to stand between his legs. She didn’t say a word, but she held him close and drew soothing circles over his back until all the tears and the pain seemed to have exhausted themselves. He hadn’t had a good night sleep since the news, and had been running around stoically by keeping his mind wholly focused on practical matters that needed his attention, but within the unfamiliar walls, alone but with the woman he loved, he had finally stopped and allowed himself to feel everything no Englishman would ever openly admit to feeling.

Bertie, however, had learnt that the one truth about emotions was that they were better acknowledged than held and piled up inside, until they would explode and find alternate ways of manifesting themselves. There was too much hatred in the world, too much anger, for men to feed it by disavowing their true feelings.

“I’m better now,” he whispered, his head having lifted and his eyes fixed in Edith’s. “I think I can face the world again.” She caressed his face once, and moved her hands to his shoulders before letting him go altogether. He heard the sound of tires on gravel, and wondered who else was coming to lunch. He didn’t have much strength to be sociable. Still, if people were only just arriving, he might have a second to do something he ought to have done the last time he had been at Downton, which he had neglected to do. “Do you think we’ll have time to visit the nursery before going downstairs again?” Edith’s perplexity was palpable. “I’d like to meet Marigold properly. While she’s awake to actually realise I’m there.”

He saw the shock register on her face, but she nodded. “They’ll have finished lunch.”

“I’ll wash my face a second, so I don’t scare the children, and I’ll be right with you.” He took the opportunity to retrieve some gifts he had brought for the three of them; he had originally planned to give one just to Marigold, to let her know she was already special to him, but then he had rethought his plan. He didn’t want the children – and Marigold in particular – to ask too many questions just in case Edith, for whichever reason, decided to break with him.

They walked to the nursery together, and Edith dismissed the nanny by kindly suggesting she could take a break, so that they might have a chance to be left alone with the children. Sybbie was clearly the least scared to meet a new man, but once he had been introduced, even George didn’t seem too shy. Marigold, however, retreated behind Edith’s leg even as Edith tried to push her forward. Bertie didn’t take offence, since Edith had already warned him about the little girl’s very shy and quiet nature.

He sat down on the floor, and called the children to his side, showing them the parcels he had saved behind his back more clearly. Sybbie was more than delighted with the small model car Bertie had brought her, and even more so when he told her that that was a car just like her Daddy had driven her Mummy around in. Bertie had bought the model after a conversation he had had with Tom; he had seen the model of the 1911 Renault 12/16hp Landaulette by pure coincidence in London, thinking if ever the man would want to give his daughter a tangible memory of the place where he had likely first talked to Lady Sybil, that model would be perfect. When taking a last-minute decision on taking two extra gifts with him, though, he had had little consideration for Tom, and had just taken the model with him. George was less fortunate in that Bertie hadn’t had anything personalised for him, and so had retrieved the first nursery book he had found amongst his old favourites and hoped the young boy would be satisfied with it. For Marigold, however, he had brought something he decidedly had given ample thought to. It was a small bracelet his mother had used as a child, and though around sixty years had passed since his mother had worn it, it didn’t look like a relic from a bygone era. Bertie had had a scarab charm added to it, a symbol of rebirth which Marigold might not be old enough to comprehend, but which still symbolised the new life Bertie wanted to give her.

He wasn’t going to ever be able to replace the hole which had grown inside of him as his eyes read the news of Peter’s death, but as the three young children each thanked him in their own unique ways for the gifts they had received – George with a smile, Sybbie with a wet kiss on his cheek, and Marigold by wrapping her arms around his neck – Bertie finally thought that wound had stopped festering, and might even start healing. There was life left in him, a future he had struggled to see, and it was staring him in the face with the kind, brown eyes of the woman he loved.

He played with the children for a few minutes, until their nanny came back, and Edith made it clear that they had better make their way downstairs. “Aren’t you staying, Mr Bertie?” Sybbie asked when he got up.

“We need to eat,” Bertie said, looking at all three of them as he said it. “But I’m going to be here this afternoon, so we’ll see each other then. How does that sound?” Sybbie seemed excited enough at the prospect, and he received a smile from George as well. He gave one last caress to Marigold before following Edith out the door.

“She’s amazing,” he said before they could reach the stairs. He could have meant Sybbie, but by the look of gratefulness Edith gave him, he knew without the shadow of a doubt that she had understood he was referring to Marigold. He only hoped he could be allowed to be a father-figure to the little girl.

Lady Mary’s blunt and rude question at lunch only increased Bertie’s determination to get a positive answer from Edith before he left for London and then Tangiers.


	16. In the heart of darkness (part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First up just a disclaimer that in the first part of the chapter you might recognise a sizeable chunk of dialogue. While I generally try not to do scenes we saw on screen, I didn't think I could skip this particular one. It was way too important to gloss over.
> 
> Secondly, there's a small deviation in the title. I don't think that anyone would have really noticed, but I'm very particular about these things, and so I thought it appropriate to mention it. I will explain all of the reasoning behind the titles at the end of the story itself, by the way.
> 
> Finally, a head's up about the depression levels in this chapter. I don't necessarily think Bertie should/would have acted the way he did in canon, but I had decided to make my story canonical and so this is the only way that I could write him as following canon. If you have any perplexities or are mad at Bertie for his reaction, please do voice your opinion in the comments. I'll be happy to read your thoughts and discuss my 'creative' process with you :)

_ 24 July, 1925 _

Never had he imagined he could feel any worse than he had when he had learnt of Peter’s death. He hadn’t thought he’d have to break things up with Edith three days later, though.

Mr Bates had been on the landing near his room when Bertie had gone up, and though Bertie hadn’t asked, the valet had helped him pack and bring his luggage downstairs, all the while managing not to look like he cared about why the sudden departure was occurring. He was helpful enough to walk to the servants’ entrance to ask someone to get a taxi, too.

Tom was the first one out, of the family; he looked contrite enough, but Bertie couldn’t really bear to look at him – Tom had been made privy to his shame and there was not enough shortage of pride in Bertie’s soul that he might look at this man without feeling anything but the deepest opprobrium towards himself. He would much rather pretend that nothing was wrong. When Lord Grantham joined them outside, Tom retreated back into the house, and Bertie hoped he wouldn’t have to face the young man again; Lord Grantham looked puzzled enough by Bertie’s decision that he didn’t feel quite as mortified in his presence.

“Mrs Hughes told me you want to leave immediately. Did you receive upsetting news?”

“I hope you won’t think me terribly rude, Lord Grantham, but I’m afraid I’d much rather get my taxi and be on my way than chat.” When Lord Grantham seemed about ready to say something else, Bertie interrupted him with the same firmness he had seen his mother use on countless occasions. “Thank you for your hospitality, it was very much appreciated. I hope you will thank Lady Grantham on my behalf as well. Now, I fear I must take my leave.”

Lord Grantham seemed as cowed by Bertie’s tone as people generally were by Mother’s, and it gave Bertie a sort of sadistic pleasure to know that he – the lowly land agent, the poor Mr Pelham, the Marquess’ castaway – could reduce an earl to abide by his will. He might not enjoy discourtesy, but that wasn’t to say that he couldn’t appreciate being spiteful when the anger inside him reached its boiling point.

“I summoned Stark, he’ll take you to the station.” Bertie turned as if whipped by a lash, and barely noticed the worried look that passed over Lord Grantham’s face. “It’s quicker than waiting for a taxi,” Edith continued. Behind her, Tom hovered in the entrance, and all the anger suddenly dissipated, to leave a barren expanse of sadness and remorse in its wake. “Walk a bit with me. Andrew will take care of your luggage.”

The silent footman appeared as if summoned by her voice, and Bertie was left with the option of keeping in Lord Grantham’s company, with Tom and a footman watching and wondering, or following Edith. He chose the hardest option and fell into step behind her. No words were exchanged for a time, and in the silence Bertie heard the car approaching and the sounds of someone loading it. The more he followed her, that half-a-step behind that was proper gallantry, the more he realised he couldn’t have been the only one hurting of the two. She had told him she loved him, and whatever else he might accuse her of, lying about that was not something he believed her capable of; she would have told him sooner, many more times, if she had been able to so callously lie about her feelings.

“I’m not shocked exactly. It isn’t that. I promise you.”

“You have to protect the honour of your family. Of course you do.”

“It isn’t even that.” He stopped, thinking it best for such a conversation to be held while facing each other. “You should have told me the whole story,” he paused to look her straight in the eyes. “From the beginning. You haven’t been fair to me.”

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Then why didn't you?” He was so very desperate to understand. He loved her; couldn’t she see how very much in love he was with her? Did she not trust him with the truth? Did she think he would betray her?

“I suppose I thought it might ruin everything.”

The bitter realisation set in with her words. “You mean you didn't trust me?” She didn’t. She truly hadn’t trusted him. He had given her enough ammunition to ridicule Peter publicly, though he had never quite spoken the words aloud, and she hadn’t trusted him to protect her and her daughter. The thought he had not yet fully digested settled like an uncomfortable stone in his stomach.

“I can't have, can I?”

Bertie wanted to contradict her, to tell her that she should have, but he didn’t. There was no point in that. Neither of them had the power to turn back time and make it so they could rewrite this last act of their story, anyway. It took time for him to formulate the next questions. “Would you have married me in a lie?”

“I don't think so, but we'll never know now.”

“No.” No, they never would. And that, more than anything else, was what settled the argument for him. And though it wouldn’t change anything, he needed her to know it, to grasp the entity of the wrong she had done him. “You see, I don't feel I could spend my life with someone I don't trust, who didn't trust me. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I'm terribly sorry, of course, but that doesn't mean much, does it?” Bertie wanted to contradict her, wished he could bring himself to say that it did, but he had no strength for it, and no capacity to find it in his heart to think otherwise. “The truth is, my life was about to be perfectly wonderful and now I've thrown it all away.” Bertie wanted to scream and yell, and tell her to fix this. He was in love with her, and he needed her with an intensity he had never felt before; he didn’t only yearn to be at her side constantly, he was not merely smitten, he wasn’t even just in love with her; he simply wasn’t himself without her, and was unlikely to be again. She was a part of him, and in the wake of losing Peter, losing her tore him in half.

He wanted her to say something that would make everything better, that would make it so he didn’t feel like the world was imploding and collapsing all around him, as if the entire universe was being reshaped into a form that Bertie couldn’t comprehend. Eventually, however, he realised she wouldn’t. He sighed. “I'd better go if I'm to catch my train.”

“Yes, hurry. I doubt we'll meet again so I want to say good luck, and everything else that goes with it.” He could see the tears in her eyes clearly, and the pain that he read on her face and in her every movement nearly made him falter, persuading him that this could be fixed. Only it couldn’t, and he had to come to terms with it sooner rather than later. He still had Peter to think about and, if nothing else, the sense of dread he had felt since the day of the crash had finally abandoned him. Maybe, if he was lucky enough, he wouldn’t have to face another tragedy quite so soon.

“Good luck to you, too. I mean that.” When he felt he could no longer hold the tears that threatened to fall, he tipped his hat, and turned, tracing their steps across the lawn. There was nothing left for him at Downton but the cold, echoing laughter of Tragedy, mocking him as he stood a victim in its wake.

* * *

He spent the duration of his train ride to London looking out the window at the passing scenery, alternately condemning Peter’s discontent and his inability to marvel at the beauty that was so evident in his homeland, and being remorseful about having such antagonistic thoughts about his cousin. Work, unfortunately, was of no help as a form of distraction.

He arrived at King’s Cross two hours before he had originally scheduled, and with nothing to do but wait for his meeting, he decided to walk around London (after having dispatched his luggage to Hexham House) in an attempt to shake his disappointment and melancholy away – he knew that it was impossible for him to feel any less grief-stricken, but he thought if he could just tackle those two particular states of mind, he would at the very least be more capable of operating normally. Nothing worked, but the constant noise and chaos of the city, invariably moving around him at an increasingly fast pace, at the very least were enough to stop the voices inside his head from arguing and rehashing every minute and every second of his last three days, in what was swiftly becoming a carnival of pain.

By the time he showed his face in Mr Bell’s office, he looked almost his normal self; one thing about his visit to Downton had been positive: he had eaten and slept. Mr Bell received him with grave solemnity. Bertie didn’t think the man knew exactly how close he had been to Cousin Peter, but he was perceptive enough to realise that a bond had existed between the two men, and that it had not been an attempt on Bertie’s part to ingratiate Peter’s favour. Mr Bell had prepared all the paperwork Bertie had requested of him and informed him of the progress he was making with the tax collectors in arranging a meeting. He suggested a re-estimation of the value of the Hexham mines, since he seemed to think they had lost in value, and Bertie understood that the matter of the mines (the actual ownership was shared, but Cousin William had bought a majority share both in three of the five majors coal mines in the Hexham region – Acomb Drift, Fallowfield, and North Tyne – and in Broomhill, a mine in Acklington which was, in size, bigger than the other three combined; to this, smaller shares in mines further up north was to be added) was the most pressing one. According to Mr Bell, who had played middle man between Peter and Mr Carr, the latter either didn’t have too good a nose for mining, or he had been trying to cheat Peter. Either way, Bertie had been presented with a sizeable volume of papers on the mines and was going to have to do some serious reading on his way to Tangiers (and probably on the way back as well).

Bertie’s meeting extended to nearly two hours, and though he tried not to show it, the lack of food he had ingested that day (his entire sustenance consisting of an aborted breakfast) resulted in his brain functioning at less than stellar capacity. He wasn’t sluggish exactly, but he was tired, and he had to make an effort to keep focused; he kept himself hydrated as much as possible, but he didn’t have a great appreciation for coffee, only submitting to it when he was truly in need or in a social setting, and tea wasn’t as strong a source of energy. Mostly, he drank water.

By the time he arrived in Hexham House that evening, he was ready to collapse. The staff there, which consisted of a butler, a housekeeper, a maid and a decent cook, had been informed of his preferences to keep making use of the room he had inhabited whenever he had passed through as the agent, but were too unfamiliar with Bertie himself to understand that the excess of formality and pomp were adversarial to their attempts at ingratiating his good favour. Then again, Bertie should probably come to terms with the fact that, at this time, he’d find most behaviours towards him to be aggravating or, at the very least, irritating. The truth was, he was feeling sorry for himself, and that was not conductive to liking people very much, whatever attempt was made to entice his estimation. No, Bertie was determined to be wretched – or, at the very least, was wretched enough that any determination not to be was turning out to be as fickle as the attention span of a child.

He went to bed early that evening, without supper. His stomach was too constricted for him to be able to ingest something, and he felt like his jaw wouldn’t be able to open to accommodate any food regardless of what his stomach’s desired, at any rate. All his exhaustion, however, amounted to very little in the way of sleep; all he could do was lay in bed with his eyes closed, pretending that it was no different than actually sleeping, though his brain refused to stop working. And as the seconds morphed into minutes turned into hours, Bertie had no recourse but to turn his mind to either the telegram – the first one – or to that moment, where Edith’s eyes had told him, before her words, who Marigold was. There was no anger left in him, and no tears either, just the emptiness that came in the wake of the loss of one of his best friends and the knowledge that the woman he loved hadn’t trusted him to love her enough to protect her. He had thought himself mere months away from complete happiness, and was now ten hours into his greatest despair.

* * *

_ 25 July, 1925 _

Tangiers was nothing at all like he had imagined it. Bertie wasn’t exactly filled to the brim with the fanciful nature of his cousin, but he had played at being medieval knights with Peter enough in their youth that he had believed his power of imagination to be at least somewhat valid. Never greater show of his mistake could have been made. There had always been something decadent and mystical in the way he had pictured Tangiers, but as his feet had touched the foreign soil, all Bertie could feel was an oppressing heat and utter chaos.

He had never been on a plane before, and hadn’t felt one bit reassured by the fact that neither had the man sat beside him, especially because the man had shaken at every tremble the plane had made. Bertie hadn’t been afraid, really, just on edge. He had spent the entire trip bent on his papers, reading and learning about the coal mines as quickly as he had once had to do with farming. He had also brought along a book on the history of coal mining in the Northumberland region, as well as several reports made throughout the decades on the topic. One thing he had known since before he had ever had to worry about it was that deposits ran out. In this, he had found, Mr Carr had possibly been trying to swindle Peter. He would have to make inquiries into Mr Carr’s finances once he was back on British soil, but he had a feeling that Mr Carr had been using some of Peter’s capital to buy shares in his name, and then with the profit made out of that, he had bought less-profitable shares in Peter’s name. Indeed, it would explain why the prospective profits had not been met the year Cousin William had died, and had diminished exponentially in the years since. The other matter which had concerned Bertie in no small measure regarded the miners’ wages. As a raised middle-class man, he had probably more affinity with the miners than all other investors, and that meant he would have to speak directly with the mines’ owners to regulate the unfair condition in which miners appeared to be working in two of the coal mines Bertie had an interest in.

By the time the plane had landed, Bertie had been too absorbed in his reading to actually notice the slight turbulence that had occurred, and had only realised that the final stage of the flight had not been very smooth when he had lifted his eyes and had noticed that his neighbour’s face had acquired a sickly tinge. Bertie had placed his papers away quickly, fearing the man might be sick on them.

He had taken what passed for a taxi out of the airport, and tried to give directions in English before resorting to French, which the driver didn’t really speak, but at the very least sort of understood. He would have to ask Yearnshire to teach him a few words of Arabic to get from point A to point B, at the very least – though he doubted very much he would truly have much use for that, since he was planning on staying very little and was decidedly not going to be sightseeing.

When he had reached his destination, Yearnshire had been standing there, waiting for him with as much dignity as he would have had in London or Brancaster, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t wearing a suit and that he was drenched in sweat. Bertie had had the impression that the man had turned into a statue, and might have believed it too, if not for the fact that Yearnshire had immediately come to Bertie’s driver and shoved an amount of money into his hands which Bertie understood to be far less than what the man had actually asked.

“Mr Pelham,” Yearnshire greeted him once they were inside. “It is a relief to see you here.”

Bertie nodded, and couldn’t help but notice the lines of worn on Yearnshire’s face. For a man in his early forties, Yearnshire definitely looked careworn. “I’m sorry it took so long, this was the quickest way to get here.” They stood in silence for a while, neither knowing exactly how to behave with the other when, suddenly, Yearnshire seemed to remember himself, and he took Bertie’s luggage in his hands and led him to a room that clearly hadn’t been Peter’s.

“It’s mine,” he explained to the unasked question. “I will sleep outside. There isn’t another room, and I didn’t think you’d like to appropriate Lord Hexham’s.”

“No. No, indeed I wouldn’t have. Thank you.”

The valet nodded and helped Bertie unpack. Neither of them made mentions of hotels, and that settled the matter. To kill the unbearable silence, Bertie asked about Peter’s belongings, and Yearnshire gave an account of them that was most satisfactory to Bertie; there was little in the way of clothing, and nothing much in trinkets. All that Peter had truly cared about had been his brushes and his paintings, which Yearnshire had carefully sorted and prepared for transportation. Bertie was shown the small room where they had been momentarily stored, and calculated that if he could clear their transportation with the British authorities in the area, he shouldn’t have any trouble bringing them home. Finally, he noticed a picture, which Yearnshire hadn’t stored away.

“He always brought with him a small portrait of his mother, and a photograph of the two of you, but I wasn’t sure what to do with this one.”

Peter was smiling, so very dashingly, his shirtsleeves turned up all the way to his biceps, and his trousers rolled to his mid-shin; beside him, a man similarly dressed, though by no means as handsome, stood with his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Was he the man who died earlier this year?”

“Yes.”

“Was he a good man?”

“He made Lord Hexham happy, and he never tried to take advantage of him.”

“Take it out of the frame and keep it in your pocket. It will come back with us.” The valet nodded, a satisfied expression on his face; Bertie thought he had just gained his eternal approval – or support, at the very least. “Now… can I go to see him?”

Yearnshire suggested they take bicycles, it was a faster and safer way of moving around Tangiers, apparently, and afforded them a better chance of actually reaching their destination within the day. They arrived at the burial ground around dusk, since Bertie’s plane had landed in the late afternoon, and the two men stood over Peter’s resting place for as long as they were allowed – which wasn’t much.

“Do you remember, when you used to call me Mr Herbert?” Bertie asked.

“I was Robert, then, and Lord Hexham was Master Peter. Until he was old enough to be the Courtesy Earl.”

“Everything seemed a lot simpler, then, Yearnshire. Being friends with a hallboy or a footman didn’t seem to be quite as improper. Still, I think there isn’t a man left on this planet who could claim to be a friend of Peter’s as much as you and I can. He had the greatest capacity for love that any man I’ve ever met displayed, and yet he had so few people who allowed themselves to look beyond the man who’d broken all paradigms dictating the nature of a marquess to see that.”

“He wasn’t quite so alone, here.”

“And he didn’t have the same restrictions he had in England, I would presume.”

“I believe the only reason why he didn’t revert to calling me Robert was that he thought I might find it demeaning.” Yearnshire smiled tenderly. There was a fondness in his words that, even had Bertie doubted the valet’s commitment to Peter before, revealed the true nature of his affections to his former employer.

“I was thinking,” Bertie said suddenly. “His favourite beach, the one he kept referring to in his letters, is it nearby?”

“Close enough to the house.”

“Can we go there now?”

“Of course. Are you sure you don’t want to say your goodbyes, though? I can leave you alone for a while. However long it takes. I can probably fend off the custodian for a handful of minutes.”

“No,” Bertie said. “No, this isn’t his place.” Yearnshire didn’t look like he understood, but didn’t object to Bertie’s request. It made Bertie feel like he and his cousin had truly shared something unique, something just between the two of them.

The sunset had been nearly complete when they arrived at what Yearnshire assured him had been Peter’s favourite spot to paint. Bertie left his bike in Yearnshire’s hands and removed his shoes, heedless of the shells and small pebbles threatening to cut his feet. He half-ran to the water’s edge until his feet were just at the right spot to get wet by the incoming waves, until the water would retreat again.

“You had no regrets, did you?” He asked to the moving ocean. “You were as happy as any man I knew, in spite of all the adversity you had to face. You never let anything go unsaid. You loved with a strength no poet has yet captured in words, whether it was another man or the world around you; you had a passion for life that I don’t think I could ever replicate. When you wanted to do something, you just did it. No half measures or attempts at compromise were acceptable to you. I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand how you couldn’t see that you had everything a man could have wished for just at the tip of your fingertips in your own house, how coming here was a betrayal of all that you should have stood for. But now I do. I don’t like this place, and I wouldn’t be caught dead spending a summer here, but I get what it meant to you. I haven’t been free my entire life, Peter, and it took me your death to understand it. I thought I was, but I don’t think that can be said of any period of my life. And now I’m more shackled than I’ve ever liked to be.”

He paused, looking at the roiling waves as the sun made its last descent beneath the waves. Only water stood in front of him now; water and the pale reflection of stars and the crescent Moon. It took him a few minutes to speak again.

“You used to joke that I’d make a better marquess than you ever could. Well, here I am, Peter. And you’re probably right, I will be a better marquess. But I’ll be a poorer one. I’m not shackled to the role, maybe, but I am shackled to my own inability to change. I’m alone, and bound to be, and it’s all my own blasted fault. She tried to tell me, she tried to tell me in so many ways. But I was too scared, too prejudiced against myself and my chances to ever understand, to ever even listen.

“She has a beautiful daughter,” he said, sobbing into the nothingness. “A very illegitimate, very beautiful daughter. And I love her now more than I have ever loved her before because of it. I despise her sister, by the way, but I despise myself much more for ever allowing sodding Lady Mary Crawley to get under my skin, and for simply being a moron, really. What man takes a decision in such a wretched time?” He laughed hysterically, though at a very contained volume, so that the sound was swallowed whole by the great expanse of nothingness in front of him. “I’m going to miss you dearly, Peter, now more than ever. But I shall remember you happily, with smiles and laughter more than tears. I promise you that. Just, maybe, not immediately.”

An incoming wave, stronger than the others splashed him all the way to his knees. He smiled. “Goodbye.”


	17. In the heart of darkness (part II)

_ 30 July, 1925 _

Bertie had decided to use Brancaster’s chapel to hold the service. The village church would have been much more accommodating, but it would be a pain to make sure that all the guests would have a means to arrive in time at Brancaster afterwards, especially the farmers and tenants who had written to Bertie  _ en masse _ to find out when and where the service would be held. Besides, making use of the chapel had been a way to ensure that the entire staff could come to pay their respect. In a parody of a marriage, Bertie had arranged the seating to reflect the social divide; on the left side, the one which would have been occupied by the bride, stood the aristocracy, headed by Lady Rothbury and her daughters, with the second row occupied by  _ Cousin  _ James and Sir Michael Arlet, Florence’s husband. On the right side, the one belonging to the groom, Bertie stood tall, flanked only by his mother. Behind him, in a move that had possibly offended the majority of the congregation, and that even his mother had opposed (she had commented once on the fact that it didn’t sit well with her that Bertie would keep Peter’s staff, when they were likely to treat him less respectfully than they ought to – he had told her without a second’s hesitation that they were staying, and made it clear he didn’t want the argument ever resurfacing), he had placed Brancaster’s servants, in order of years of service rendered, rather than seniority. He imagined Peter’s face as he observed the congregation, and couldn’t help but think that his cousin would have been ecstatic about Bertie’s assertiveness on the matter. If the smirk he had spied on Yearnshire’s face when the valet had learnt of the plan was any indication, Bertie thought he’d hit the mark quite effectively.

Harry, whom Bertie hadn’t seen since before the news of Peter’s death had reached him, had come with his entire family, and once the service was over, Bertie took the time to embrace Ada and thank each of the children immensely for being there. They might not have been Peter’s family, but they were Bertie’s much more than his Aunt Hilda and her husband, his Uncle Bartholomew.

The reception afterwards served as much of a reminder to Bertie of how truly alone he was. As guests mingled and pretended to have long faces when they noticed his presence or his eyes upon them, Bertie could see quite clearly how their looks were predatory at best and certainly calculating. There were no whispered defaming of his name, but Bertie rather thought it was all entirely due to his mother’s presence rather than for lack of thought. There was one thing that could be said about Mrs Pelham: she commanded respect, whichever room she was in – Father used to joke that Mother was the only woman who could make the king bow. Bertie might have resented her callousness in regards to Peter, but he felt no small amount of gratitude at having her there with him in his hour of need.

He made sure to thank all the tenants and farmers in attendance for their presence and their kindness, as well as trying his best at making the rounds amongst the aristocracy, but he was more than a little glad to see that his mother handled that side of the room while Bertie had to dedicate his attention to the bishop who had presided the service and needed his full attention. When he was too tired to keep up the conversation, he was rescued by Florence, who gave him a kind smile as she captured the Bishop’s attention and relieved him of his duty. Bertie naturally gravitated towards George and Margaret, who were the youngest attendants at the wake. Whereas Thomas and Elizabeth had found themselves mingling with other young men and women, the two youngest Armstrongs had no one but each other to rely on.

“Hi, you two,” he said as he approached them.

“Hi, Uncle Bertie,” Margaret said as she gave him a sad smile. “Are you very sad?”

“I am,” he confirmed. “But it’s all right, because I promised Peter I would become less sad about his death, soon.”

“Well,” George declared with absolute conviction. “That’s good. Because a man always keeps his promises, and you’re the best of men.”

“Right,” Bertie confirmed, as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’m afraid this has made it harder for me to find some time to spend with you two. I still owe you a day each, don’t I?”

“Don’t worry, Uncle Bertie, we understand. You’re very busy and you have to be all over the place to check all this stuff that you inherited.” Margaret must have been given a simplified recount of what it meant for Bertie to be the new Marquess.

Suddenly, Bertie was struck with a thought. “What would the two of you say to a trip to Scotland?”

“Really?” George blurted out. His tone was a bit higher than he had probably intended it because it attracted some stares.

“I will have to ask your parents, but I have to go to Scotland to visit a place that belonged to Cousin Peter, and maybe you can come along. It won’t be all fun, because I have to do some work, but you’ve never been to Scotland, and I think you might enjoy that.”

“We say it would be great,” Margaret assured him for the two of them. “Provided Mum and Dad approve, and only if you are  _ really _ sure it won’t be a bother.”

Bertie smiled. “Do you see that man serving tiny food, who is close to the Bishop and the lady with the raven black hair?” He was drawing their eyes in Matthew’s direction. The two children nodded. “His name is Matthew. Go tell him Lord Hexham asked him to show you to the play room. There should be some old toys still around that you might enjoy.”

As soon as he had caught Matthew’s eye to confirm the story the two children had relayed to him, Bertie turned around, ready to mingle with the next guest who needed attention. It was then that he realised it. Everyone was engaged in a conversation; there were two contiguous opened reception rooms, and while he stood in the middle of the largest, he understood how truly alone he was. He felt as useless in that moment as he had when his field assistant had died at his side during the Great Retreat after the Battle of Mons. Even more so, actually; he had, then, at the very least had the duty of keeping his men in line and alive. Now, his only duty appeared to be standing still while life went on without him. There was absolutely nothing for him to do. He was tempted to get a tray and start serving the guests, but even that thought seemed ridiculous when Charlton clearly had everything under the strictest control, and even the temporary absence of Matthew wasn’t a good enough reason to slow the perfect rhythm the butler had established in serving and disappearing to fetch new trays. Bertie couldn’t justify the anxiety that overcame him; everything was running smoothly, and he should have been relieved to know that he had no reason to worry himself with the thought of keeping his guests happy when they so clearly already were, but he felt himself short of breath and suddenly sweaty, well beyond what was normal for a summer day, even if he was spending it wearing his best mourning clothes. Hugh came to his rescue with a glass of water, and brought Harry with him soon thereafter in as inconspicuous a way as possible.

As his friend approached, the bubble which had seemed to envelop Bertie and choke him suddenly broke, and he could finally breathe more freely. Instead of causing a scene by sitting down or retiring to the corridor for a moment, Bertie put on a brave smile and headed towards his mother, pretending nothing was, or had been, amiss. The look Harry sent his way was not lost on him, but Bertie ignored it in favour of affecting, like so many of the assembled crowd, that there was nothing out of place.

The general public was sent on their way after another hour or so, while the staff gradually transitioned to the main dining room, where closest relatives and a select few members of the local aristocracy were going to be served luncheon. Mother had prepared the seating arrangements, placing Lady Rothbury and Lady Adele each side of her, and Florence and the Bishop each side of Bertie. Everyone else was sorted out in a way that made every guest comfortable; his mother seemed to know who liked whom, and had ensured that everyone would be content with their fellow commensals. The Bishop of Newcastle, who hadn’t christened Peter and knew very little of him, but had been in service in his current post for approximately ten years, was not on his first visit to Brancaster, and seemed to be intent on regaling Bertie with all the details of his previous stay. Florence appeared only too delighted by the ordeal Bertie found himself in, and dared whisper in his ear that it was to be his penance for having decided to sit beside him rather than her mother or sister. Bertie just wished the Bishop had been more fascinated by sharing a name with him than the stonework. Bertie had thought the Deacon of Hexham or, at the very best, the Archdeacon of Lindisfarne would have been a high enough representative of the clergy for Peter’s service. Unfortunately for him, however, the Right Reverend Herbert Wild had insisted on attending to the service himself, and there was little aside from ‘thank you, Milord’ one could say to a bishop offering his services.

Throughout the whole meal, Bertie didn’t eat more than mere morsels of food, and he noticed the staff exchanging what should have been covert glances to each other whenever he refused a serving plate and denied a refill for his mostly full glasses of wine. His mother, even from across the table, seemed quite as worried as the servants, but she had her hands full with Lady Rothbury and Lady Adele to do much beyond doing her best not to be rude to them.

At the end, when fruit had been served, Bertie called for attention. The room feel in silent anticipation as Bertie stood tall, his back straight and his face composed. “A toast to the memory of the departed sixth Marquess of Hexham. May his soul find peace in death, and may his memory leave a lasting impression on those who knew and loved him.” Over thirty glasses were raised to the toast, and still, Bertie’s eyes couldn’t help but fall upon Yearnshire as they did, as though of everyone present, he alone could truly capture the meaning of Bertie’s toast. He, who stood still with a carafe of wine in his hands, ready to refill the glass of those who had never known and certainly never loved Peter.

* * *

_ 9 August, 1925 _

Mother hadn’t been too pleased to learn that Bertie had no intention of cancelling the reservations for the grouse season, but Bertie had been resolute in his dogged determination not to cancel – he might have become a millionaire, as the papers seemed to love reminding the entire universe, but he didn’t necessarily think that should translate into his having to pay a fee to all those who had paid to stay at Brancaster, as well as reimbursement for their payments. He had begun works to restore a section of the Castle that had originally been arranged for a maiden aunt, which he didn’t necessarily intend to send his mother to immediately, but which might be useful in the future, should he ever marry.

He hadn’t told his mother he had broken things off with Edith, she had simply assumed that her absence and his lack of visits to either London or Downton were a direct result of Bertie’s preoccupation with dealing with all of his new duties. He had left for Scotland three days after the service, wanting to escape his first very public appearance in the newspapers. George and Margaret had gone with him, though Ada hadn’t been too pleased with the suddenness of his plans. It had done Bertie some good, but he had only allowed himself to stay two nights – he hadn’t slept, of course, and had only eaten enough so that the children wouldn’t notice how his appetite was lacking. He had spent the time alone, when the children had been asleep or playing some distance from him, in a near catatonic state, staring into space without really taking anything in. It seemed as though whenever he didn’t think about work, Bertie was assaulted by an overwhelming despair, and thus had taken to actively trying not to think of anything and, failing that, to have some paperwork in his hands to hide the fact that he couldn’t bear to be alone with his own thoughts.

Upon coming back to Brancaster, he had summoned Mr Carr (whose finances Mr Bell had closely scrutinised to discover that Bertie’s assumption had been correct), and fired him on the spot – not before having told him that he had commenced a legal case against him. While Mr Bell’s associate would deal with all the judiciary aspect of things, it had left Bertie with the unpleasant task of finding someone else to cover Mr Carr’s job. He had sent Mother to Newbiggin again in the meantime, thinking it would do him good to be separated from her for a handful of days without necessarily having to tell her that he was extremely tired of her constant nagging. It helped him keep the peace to have a couple of days off from her. And if her absence meant that there was one less person monitoring his eating habits, he would certainly not complain about that.

In anticipation of Brancaster housing guests while he actually lived there, Bertie had decided to modify the rooms which he had made available for the renters. The library, which had become his sanctuary, the one place where he refused to talk about business of any kind, had suddenly become off limits for the guests. Brancaster had enough drawing rooms and ante-drawing rooms for renters to be happy whether or not they were allowed in the library. He had also reserved his study and the one which his mother used for her correspondence from time to time. Finally, he had selected a small dining room, which he used for breakfast and luncheon most days. There was enough space at Brancaster that Bertie didn’t have to worry about even meeting the guests.

He heard a knock on his study door and called for whoever it was to come inside. Mr Charlton opened the door with a solemn air that was slightly more accentuated than usual.

“How can I help you, Charlton?”

“I hope His Lordship won’t find me impertinent, but I was wondering if I could be made aware of your plans for Hexham House. I do believe it is time the matter was decided upon, Milord.” Bertie blinked. “I am well aware that it is not an extreme strain on His Lordship’s finances to keep the house closed, but it does appear a shame to have it closed and uninhabited when Brancaster will soon be quite crowded with strangers.”

“Are you booting me out, Charlton?”

The Butler looked scandalised. “Not at all, Milord. I was simply suggesting this grouse season appears to be a perfect opportunity for you to deal with Hexham House.”

“Since when have you become my agent?” Bertie asked, more baffled than upset. Indeed, he thought the entire thing quite funny.

“I should never dare to call myself your agent, Your Lordship, but you do seem quite intent on not hiring anyone to cover your old job, and with your new responsibilities it seemed only right that I should try to keep abreast of anything that might escape your notice while you are overly busy with more incumbent matters.”

Charlton had been trying not-so-subtly to convince Bertie to get a land agent to substitute Bertie in his old job for the past ten days, on and off, with as little success as his mother had. Unfortunately for Bertie, where his mother was quickly convinced to raise the white flag when Bertie presented her with Mr Carr’s case and the likelihood of someone incompetent or ill-intentioned worming his way into the job and wrecking Brancaster’s future, Charlton had seen beyond Bertie’s excuse and claimed that if not an agent who handled all the work, at the very least an assistant would be necessary. Bertie had yet to capitulate. Still, as he considered the future of Hexham House – because in spite of what Charlton probably thought, Bertie did listen – he had to relent to the evidence presented to him by Charlton’s words. Hexham House needed sorting, and if Bertie left the following day, he wouldn’t have to worry about renters inviting him to dine with them when they would inevitably find out that he was in residence.

“I’ll ask Yearnshire to help me pack, and I’ll leave tomorrow morning if you are quite so determined.”

Charlton nodded, but made no move to leave. Bertie sighed internally before asking him if he had something else to say.

“Might you wish to bring Mr Yearnshire along with you on your journey, Milord, I think he could be spared here. After all, we do not provide guests with a valet if they do not have one.”

“Of course, Yearnshire will come with me.”

Satisfied that his voice had been heard, Charlton left the room, and Bertie went back to his job. He had been working on more mundane things since he had fired Mr Carr, primarily concerning the estate. Farmers and tenants could not be neglected on account of his being busy with tasks that had never been in his purview before. His mother was coming back that evening, and that meant he at least wouldn’t have to worry about the renovation crew being unsupervised while he was in London; indeed, Mother was much more effective than he could ever be in policing the workers. In his two years as agent, he had managed to secure the running of the estate in such a way that it didn’t actually require as close a monitoring as he had kept up for the entire time he had worked – something that explained why the estate had not suffered his increasing visits to London. Indeed, it was only his perfectionist and over-controlling attitude that had made him feel guilty whenever he had not been managing the estate. Barring any emergency, Charlton’s assessment had been correct; now was the perfect time to tackle Hexham House.

The only reason why Bertie hadn’t gone down to London, and had refused to even entertain the thought of going, was that going to London meant a possibility, however infinitesimal, of meeting Edith. Of course, now he knew her usual stomping grounds and her favourite restaurants and clubs, so he could do his best to minimise the chances of running into her, but the truth was he didn’t trust his desires. Because the more he thought about not meeting her, the more he wanted to take a seat outside her flat and wait for her to come, so that he might apologise for leaving and ask her forgiveness. Unfortunately for him, the idea was ludicrous. The plan – which wasn’t even a plan, but rather a fanciful idea born of weeks of frustration, restless sleep, and nibbled-at food – would have required him to think about all the things (and there were more things than just the way the revelation of Marigold’s parentage had come about and the lack of trust Bertie had initially taken it to be, Bertie just hadn’t put a name to them yet) that had gone wrong in their relationship for it to reach the breaking point, but Bertie was too scared by half to face them, which meant that even if he were to meet her outside her flat, he wouldn’t know what to say to convince her – and himself alongside her – that getting back together was the right choice to make. Giving them another chance appeared to be a beautiful, even Edenic, idea, but in reality it was as much of a chimera as Lady Rothbury thawing to the idea of Bertie being the new Marquess. If he wanted to salvage his relationship with Edith, he would first have to stop and think at what wrong he had done – to her, certainly, but to himself as well. But no amount of consciousness would be able to convince him to actually start on the process.

No, he would go to London (with Yearnshire in tow, despite the fact that Bertie didn’t truly think it necessary to bring the valet with him), and he would make a decision about Hexham House, even if it was just to keep it closed forever, and stay for a week or two just to change scenery. Whatever he would do, though, trying to reconcile with Edith was not on his list – however desperately he wished it could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If at any point during the reading of this chapter you found yourselves frustrated with Bertie, I will only remind you that the human mind is not the easiest place to inhabit, especially in the wake of pain, loss and grief. The chapter's title is very much reflective of what I write.
> 
> Historical note: The church of England seats I named in the story (Deacon of Hexham, Archdeacon of Lindisfarne and Bishop of Newcastle) are all true and in hierarchical order from least to most influential as I named them here (if you wish a bit of extra information, please do ask in the comments, I don't mind).  
> The Bishop Herbert Wild was the Bishop of Newcastle from 1915 to 1927. His personality in my story, however is purely fictional; I couldn't find much on him without access to a library, and so decided to be very liberal with it.


	18. In the heart of darkness (part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst is not over with yet, unfortunately, but you know as well as I do that it's coming. Stick around. A few weeks and we should be there!
> 
> As always, any and all comments are super appreciated. Stay safe, everyone!

_ 10 August, 1925 _

After unpacking, Bertie had taken a tour of the house, accompanied only by Yearnshire. All attempts by the permanent members of staff to present him with their good work on preserving everything to a decorous standard in spite of their very small number had been met with polite smiles and reassurances that Bertie trusted their work and was not there to boot them out. They were shocked into retreat.

The more he had circled the rooms, the more an idea had been taking shape into his head. He had been pondering over a solution for Peter’s paintings, which he had left in London upon his return from Tangiers with all the previous paintings his cousin had produced. The solution for Hexham House taking shape in his mind was suddenly presenting itself as a way to kill two birds with one stone.

“Have you thought of something, Milord?”

“Museum House.” It was a sudden declaration, and probably one that needed explaining. “I am never here, or if I am I am unlikely to need a place to stay that has more rooms than I can count; I stay in London for a couple of days at the time, five at best, and then go back to Brancaster, so hiring a bigger staff makes no sense whatsoever, and to maintain Hexham House at the standard it deserves, the current staff is not exactly enough. They work hard, and I do believe they make a very good job, but one maid to clean all these rooms is a ridiculous thought. On the other hand, selling seems like something that really shouldn’t be my decision,” Bertie admitted, more to himself than the valet.

He had failed to address the issue before, but the truth of the matter was that he had not been raised to be Lord Hexham, and, to him, that meant that whatever possession he had come into after Peter’s death wasn’t truly his; it would be his heir’s, and Bertie would not oppose him selling the entirety of his possessions, if that was what he would decide, but  _ he _ didn’t feel like he could make that decision for himself, not while everything he believed himself to be was the Hexham fortune’s caretaker. The matter of the heir, of course, was one Bertie had to consider carefully; he knew he had to start thinking about his options, but for the time being, he couldn’t help but avoid all attempts at imaging himself with a woman at his side, for they inevitably led him to thoughts of Edith, and Bertie had been determined not to think of her. Mr Bell had provided him with the name of the relation who stood to inherit if Bertie were to die childless, but Bertie hadn’t gone much beyond that in his investigations.

Yearnshire was looking at him, and Bertie smiled. “It would also serve as a perfect instrument to ensure Peter’s legacy is not forgotten. I have seen his paintings, and I think we can arrange it so they fit in the dark-blue reception room; the lighting seems just about right, and its paintings can easily be relocated in other rooms of the house.”

“It would be a lovely tribute, Milord.”

“And I also think,” Bertie added. “That we can keep the Eastern wing sectioned off. It has a direct connection to the servants’ quarters, as well as housing the main bedrooms, two studies, the main library, the dining room and the small ballroom – should occasion ever arise for its use. It would reduce the staff’s strain, and at the same time the rest of the house would generate enough profit for the upkeep to no longer be an issue.”

“The idea itself sounds quite reasonable, Milord,” Yearnshire agreed. “Would you know whom to approach with this plan, though?”

“Yes. In his last letter home, Peter reminded me of his connection with the Earls of Carlisle.”

“He wrote to the Honourable Geoffrey Howard soon after his missive to you, Milord.”

“He told me as much,” Bertie agreed. “Only, the ninth Earl was a painter, and since most of his paintings have been distributed amongst private collections as well as public museums, I thought they might be able to counsel me on how to handle turning Hexham House into a Museum House.”

“Well, I would say that His Lordship appears to have a sound plan.”

“I do, rather,” Bertie agreed, though not to compliment himself. “In fact, Yearnshire, I think I’ve settled all matters regarding the Hexham fortune. I need to find someone to replace Mr Carr, of course, but beyond that there is little else that needs doing.” Even as the words left his mouth, Bertie felt as if he were falling through a void, unable to keep himself tethered to the ground.

“Would this then be a good moment for me to inquire about my own future, Your Lordship?”

Bertie, who had been lost in the feeling of emptiness that had threatened to overcome him at the realisation, turned abruptly towards his trusted man with bewilderment. “What do you mean by that?”

“His Lordship has been very kind in allowing me to stay on for as long as I have, but since you do not require a valet, I struggle to see how my continuous presence at Brancaster is of any use to you.”

“Hasn’t Charlton been keeping you busy?” Bertie asked, still unable to comprehend what Yearnshire was saying.

“Very much so. And I have taken it upon myself to instruct Matthew in the ways of being a valet – not for his personal aspirations, but because I thought he might make use of them should any guest invited to stay require the services of one. But there’s no true use for me at Brancaster, not certainly as soon as things will have settled down, and though His Lordship appears to have enough handle on financial matters to keep me in employment, I am an honest worker, and cannot take charity for services not rendered.”

“Then I’ll become used to having a valet,” Bertie declared, unwilling to accept that Yearnshire would leave his employment. He might not understand it, but Yearnshire had become a sort of anchor for him ever since Peter’s death.

The Valet smiled. “It is most kind of you to offer, Milord. But we both know that would not be your preference, and we would eventually come to dislike the arrangement.”

Bertie’s shoulders sagged in defeat, Yearnshire was right, of course. Bertie eyed two chairs with his eye, and made his way towards them. “Sit for a while with me, please.” Yearnshire followed him and complied with the request. “I can’t do this on my own. Whatever everyone seems to think, and whatever front I’ve been presenting to the world, I am not at all ready to be the Marquess of Hexham. I know it seems terribly selfish of me, but I need you to stay on, at the very least until I can find my own footing.” Bertie knew he was allowing himself to be too weak in front of Yearnshire, but the man had been a companion in the past, and had always been a trusted ally – a friend, even.

“I have remarked, in the days since my arrival at Brancaster, that Lady Edith Crawley has not made an appearance.”

Bertie smiled grimly at the prompt. “I haven’t even told my mother; I think she is too absorbed by her fixation with arranging everything at Brancaster to properly give the matter any consideration. If I were to tell her that I am no longer spoken for, she would try to arrange for me to find someone else to court, and I couldn’t bear that.”

“May I ask what brought on this separation, at the very least, Milord? I do not mean to appear too forward, but the late Lord Hexham shared with me your enthusiasm about your prospects with Lady Edith, and I have to admit to being most befuddled by this particular turn of events.”

“You’re not too forward by half. Indeed, the reason why I don’t want to be parted from you is that I trust you to keep my secrets as well as you kept Peter’s, and to not keep your thoughts on some concerns – no matter how delicate and uncomfortable they are.” He paused, considering how much to tell Yearnshire. The valet certainly would keep to himself every word spoken, but Bertie didn’t even remotely consider divulging the truth about Marigold, nor did he want to be responsible for someone – not even Yearnshire – coming to the right conclusions. Despite his earlier resolutions of not thinking the matter through, Yearnshire’s questions forced him to re-evaluate his behaviour in spite of himself.

He remembered quite clearly the first time she had expressed her unworthiness – a perplexing reaction to his declaration of liking her beyond measure, despite knowing how very undeserving he was of courting her. He remembered all other instances in which her hesitation and her lack of self-worth had become apparent to Bertie, and though he had ascribed them to the role she had been made to play within her family nucleus, in hindsight, they had been quite something else. He remembered, finally, the words he had interpreted as her assent to marrying him; no sane man would have come to Bertie’s conclusion on their meaning, of course, but Bertie had been out of his mind with grief at the time – though he did not like to think of that as a valid excuse, but rather as a factor in the equation which had brought them to Edith’s forced revelation at breakfast the following morning.

“Something came between us; she displayed what I felt was a lack of trust in me, and I couldn’t live with the knowledge that the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with would not trust me.”

“You  _ felt _ like it was a lack of trust,” Yearnshire remarked. “You no longer think that, Milord?”

“I no longer feel as strongly as I did before about her guilt in the matter. Indeed, I am rather convinced I pushed her beyond what she was comfortable with in my haste to cancel the pain I felt at the loss of Cousin Peter. How could she have trusted me, when I didn’t trust her request for a little more time to consider my offer of marriage?”

“Would it be quite impossible for you to apologise, Milord? Or, more importantly still, would it be even possible for you to believe her capable of never displaying a lack of trust in you again? And, on top of that, for you never to enable your grief to cloud your vision to her own feelings?”

“I’d beg on my hands and knees, if only I thought she would take me back. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how to go about it, Yearnshire. I dare say she wouldn’t look kindly on a letter sent by me or any man affiliated with me, and I doubt she will ever try to reconcile our differences of her own accord, and I can’t blame her for that.”

Yearnshire seemed to take the matter into consideration for a respectable amount of time. Then, much to Bertie’s astonishment, he took out a letter from his breast pocket. “It came in the post three days ago. I recognised the calligraphy as belonging to Lady Adele, and didn’t like showing it to you. I had a feeling about its content, and assumed you wouldn’t like it, Milord.”

Bertie took it from his hands, though he didn’t open it, to find an invitation – for that very same evening – to a ball held at Lord and Lady Rothbury’s home in London. It was the last day of the season, and it made sense that they would throw a ball at its very end. Especially since Adele was no longer Peter’s intended, and needed to quickly find someone to marry. “I don’t like it at all,” Bertie declared when he had concluded reading it. He thought the invitation an insult, because veiled in it where words Adele had probably been forced to write on request of her mother or her father, words that seemed to imply she had an interest in him as a prospective husband. “But I’d like you to never conceal something like this from me again. Especially if you are going to have a change of heart at the last minute and tell me that you think I should actually accept the invitation. That is why you have given it to me now, I assume.”

“It is,” Yearnshire confirmed. “Only, Lady Edith owns a women’s magazine which is very much on top of all the social events occurring in town. It might be possible for you to meet her there tonight, maybe in her capacity of journalist. Lord Rothbury’s ball has been the talk of town for the past week.” Peter must have given his valet a full recount of what Bertie had written in his letters home, for Yearnshire to be so aware of Edith’s occupation and her magazine. Bertie was even left wondering if Peter hadn’t done some investigation into Edith of his own accord, just to see whether or not she would be fit for his cousin.

“I doubt Edith will be around, but Adele has invited me, and if for no other reason than to let her know she doesn’t have to throw herself at my feet, I feel compelled to go. Now, run along to give a message at the house. And offer your services while you are at it. You can tell them it’s my apology for not being able to answer sooner because the message became misplaced in my post.”

Yearnshire was out the door before Bertie could seriously become angry with him. He was content enough with knowing that the valet would no longer take the same decision to let him go without serious reprimand. He also didn’t feel like he could get angry at a man who had willingly admitted to concealing something from him just because he saw in his confession a way for Bertie to meet up with Edith. And in the time it would take him to decide whether or not being fashionably late at the ball would be acceptable, he could also think on how to make sure Yearnshire didn’t leave his employment. He knew the man wouldn’t leave his service before Bertie himself released him of his duties, but Bertie did respect his wishes. He just didn’t like to think there was no other solution than letting the man go; indeed, he refused to accept the notion. There was a strain of stubbornness in the Pelham genes that had definitely not passed him by. Besides, much like his mother, Bertie refused to accept defeat.

His black tie had been brought along for any eventuality, and Bertie found himself sliding into his formal suit with less difficulty than he might have imagined. Less than a month after Peter’s death, Bertie still refused to wear his white tie, even though his move to attend the ball in a less formal attire might antagonise the Rothburys, since it would serve to remind them of what he thought about their swift transition from mourning to partying. Bertie might attend their ball, but he refused to wear his white tie. He still managed to come out as a perfectly respectable gentleman. He might never be a socialite, but he had learnt to appreciate the finer aspects of caring for his appearance and the image of himself he presented to the public. He had never been shabby, or unkempt, but he had not quite grasped how putting on a white tie made one more suited to being refined; he had always had an impressive posture, which he had prided himself for, but it had only been through his friendship with Peter that he had understood what displaying  _ amour-propre _ in his own appearance meant. Peter had always had to be impeccable, but unlike with any other duties with which he had been entrusted, he had never complained about that particular aspect of his life. Bertie had wanted to ask him why it was that Peter could take so much pride in his looks and yet care so little about what people thought of him; he had thought it an oxymoronic attitude. Before he could grow the courage to ask him, however, Bertie had understood. Grooming himself had not been an attempt on Peter’s part to look the part of future Marquess of Hexham, but rather a service to himself. Indeed, being able to look at himself in the mirror and see the better version of himself reflected in it had always helped Peter – as it had Bertie, once he had understood it – to feel stronger and readier to face the world at large; much like an armour worn in Medieval times, a creaseless suit and polished shoes were a defence against the most vicious of attacks.

At the ball his presence was received with looks of awe and pleasure from the guests, and the mix of anticipation and resentment that he had come to expect from the Rothburys. Florence, though not the house’s mistress, came to him with a jovial smile and all of her friendly nature on open display; her husband was just as kind. Cousin James – the name still tasting oddly in Bertie’s mind, let alone his mouth – had nothing but words of thanks to share with Bertie, and proceeded to introduce him to some of his friends during the evening, especially before the dance started properly. Bertie paid his respects to Lady Rothbury as well, thinking it only proper that he should, and apologised profusely for the very last-minute appearance – regardless of the fact that Yearnshire had undoubtedly done all the necessary grovelling for both of them. Adele spared him a look, but didn’t say much beyond words of greetings. Bertie was relieved to see that she had at least had the decency to be still wearing second mourning attire, much like her sister and mother.

Her parents opened the dance, mainly because it was their house and Adele had already had her coming-out ball ten years or so before, but Bertie forced himself to ask her hand not long after her parents had started dancing. She took it, of course, and though she looked happy about the gesture to the untrained eye, Bertie had met her in the nursery at Brancaster, and could tell that she wasn’t.

“Mama told me what you proposed to do for me,” she said, shortly after they had begun dancing. “It was unnecessarily kind of you to offer, of course.”

“I won’t presume to tell you what to do about it,” Bertie answered. “But if you have any doubts about Peter’s intentions, let me assure you that I wasn’t lying to your father when I told him about them. He did want to marry you.”

“You use rather a strong word to talk about his decision on the matter. His wishes had very little to do with his intentions, after all.”

“The very same could be said about you, though.” The set of her jaw told him she was admitting the point. “Look, we were never friends, and we are hardly going to start now, but I don’t want us to be enemies. You are always going to resent me for succeeding Peter, and you are always going to be angry at him for not facing his responsibilities sooner and leaving you with absolutely nothing in your hands. But if this hand of fate has taught me anything, it is that letting negative emotions rule our conduct doesn’t accomplish much in the way of finding happiness.”

“I was never looking for happiness with Peter. But I would have been happy as the Marchioness.”

“But you wouldn’t be happy with me, and I would be wretched with you, through no fault of your own. So, let’s not pretend that we can make this work, whatever wishes your parents may harbour for you. There’s a room full of men, some of whom are rather unattached and more built for their roles than I ever was. I daresay you might find happiness with one of them.”

“Ah, so you did come to let me down.” She smiled ruefully, and he understood that she didn’t harbour any anger towards him for that particular turn of events. “Tell the next person you speak or dance with about the imminent engagement between Peter and I, and I shall think you forgiven.”

“Am I allowed to add compliments to your characters while I do?”

“What were you thinking?” She asked with a devious look.

_ Unacceptably high standards, bullheadedness, a soul as cold and unmovable as marble, and the penchant to look at anyone with scornful superiority _ . What he said was quite different though, even if he liked to think of it as his attempt at a positive approach, a way to find the better side to her character traits, rather than an outright lie. “Strength of character, determination, firm resolve, and impeccable manners.”

“I suppose that might work in my favour.”

They separated soon thereafter. Bertie forced himself to dance with Lady Rothbury once and Florence after that; the youngest of Peter’s cousins came back for a second dance later on, but Bertie stayed mostly on his own throughout, trying his best not to look like he would have wanted to be anywhere else by speaking with as many people as he could digest. All the time, he felt like the entire room was collapsing in on him, and he had no other recourse to keep himself smiling politely than to shut his brain down as much as possible. He did have one positive encounter, though, for which he was most grateful.

“Major Pelham,” he heard a voice call from behind him. “We meet again.”

When he turned, he was met with the familiar face of a former acquaintance of the Army, Wentworth Beaumont. “Captain,” he replied, though they had both retired from the Army. The man was accompanied by a woman, whom Bertie assumed to be his wife.

“I thought I had escaped you being my superior when I left the Army. I have to tell you the truth, I didn’t expect you to go to all the trouble of actually becoming a marquess to outrank me. I really am only a viscount, Lord Hexham.”

Bertie smiled, though the pain of having Peter’s death trivialised this way made him crack inside. He knew Lord Allendale hadn’t meant to offend or be insensible, but there was no pretending to himself that this sort of remarks didn’t hurt still. “I’m afraid I always was a bit of an overachiever. Still, I must admit I haven’t kept much abreast of your escapades after the end of the War.” Lord Allendale had been a Captain in the Army, and though they had not fought together, they had had occasion to meet over the course of the four years of conflict.

“Not much in the way of escapades, rather I have followed my father’s footsteps in politics. Other than that, I suppose I’ve mostly been taking care of the family. Our eldest son was born three years ago, and we have had a daughter this past May.”

“My sincerest congratulations to both of you,” Bertie nodded, positively acknowledging the Viscount’s wife for the first time. They spent some time talking, and Bertie promised them an invitation to Brancaster, after explaining that the Castle was currently being lent for the season.

“That explains why you are in London when everyone else is leaving,” Lady Allendale said. “You will be the only man left by tomorrow, I’m sure.”

Bertie smiled amiably, not knowing exactly what one was supposed to say to such a remark. He was saved from making too much of a fool of himself, though when Sir Michael came to talk to Lord Allendale. Apparently the two men knew each other, and Bertie thought as things went that wasn’t the worst that had happened to him that night.

He had to stay at the ball nearly until its end, even though he had felt like collapsing as early as eleven o’clock. Yearnshire came with him, his own strength having been depleted. Before they could separate once they had reached Hexham House, though, Bertie decided to tell the valet that he wasn’t going to need to look for a new source of employment. “Charlton has been trying to find a way of asking me to get some extra staff now that Brancaster is to be a proper house again, and though I don’t see the point in hiring anyone new as of yet, I do believe I can give him an underbutler. He can teach you what you don’t already know in the following months.”

Yearnshire was at a loss for words, and Bertie decided to leave him and retreat to his room. He was too tired and spent to have an honest heart-to-heart with the man. He had met a good part of the Northumberland nobility in one night, as well as peers from all over the country, and had no further energies. Not for himself and certainly not for his valet.

When he woke up the following morning to find his name plastered all over the paper, he didn’t even have the strength of working up the anger that he felt the newspaper deserved for portraying him like a sensation and a success. Least of all, did he have the strength to fight the accusations that he had made some moves to assert himself as Cousin Adele’s future husband even as both of them seemed to still be in mourning. When he checked  _ The Sketch _ , on Wednesday, he had to force himself not to rip the magazine in a million pieces; Edith’s magazine had had its own go at the Rothburys ball, and Bertie’s name was prominent in it. He left for Northumberland the very next day, heedless of the pity in Yearnshire’s eyes.


	19. Hearts made weak by time and fate, but strong in will (part I)

_2 September, 1925_

He had left a note on his bedside table, because even though he didn’t like it, there were people now who cared about where he was at all times of the day, and leaving his room before dawn entailed that none of those people would see him, and if they didn’t, then chances were they would worry tremendously – which could very well result in a search party being sent after him. The need to write a note, of course, did not imply that he had to be too specific regarding his whereabouts, so long as he promised to be back for lunch.

He had woken up a little before four, and though it had become the norm for him to sleep so little, that morning he had felt incapable of waiting until it was time to get up, staring at his bedroom walls and thinking of Edith. Because that was all he had been able to do in the past few weeks – except for when his mind was too preoccupied with the estate or the mines (he had yet to properly start looking for a replacement for Mr Carr precisely because he needed to keep his mind busy). He had decided that he wanted to do something that would numb his body, reduce it to a tired mass of limbs, in the hopes that that would be enough for his brain to shut down. For that reason, he had decided that the best activity he could have picked was horse riding. He hadn’t been on the back of a horse in a while, now, and since he had inherited the stables alongside the rest of Brancaster Castle, it occurred to him that it was akin to a sacrilege that he shouldn’t make use of its horses.

Despite the fact that it was still summer, Bertie had discovered at his own expense that at such an early hour of the morning, his bedroom could be rather cold – it didn’t help that the room was bigger than any bedroom he had ever had occasion to sleep in. When first he had moved in, he had found it a bit ridiculous that, in spite of its size, Bertie was still required to leave his clothes in the adjoining dressing room, and had actually considered moving into the smaller room to sleep as well; after all, the bed was there. Of course, the idea hadn’t made it past his brain, for he knew that while his unwillingness to adapt completely to his role might look endearing still, some things would not entirely be accepted – sleeping in the dressing room when there was no one else in the main bedroom to boot him out was one of those.

The major problem with his bedroom, of course, had been its size; Bertie looked at its empty spaces and found within them the voids that had crept into his life and inhabited it, leaving him not just discontented, but utterly dissatisfied with the direction he had been set to. In an attempt to make his bedroom less inhospitable, he had brought in some paintings and some photographs. The walls had been bare and cold before, despite their warm and relaxing shade, and so he had selected a handful of landscape paintings – which he largely preferred to family portraits – to cover them. He had even reserved a spot for one of Peter’s creations, a view of the shore of Tangiers, for it reminded Bertie of his cousin. For the bedside table and the vanity – which had remained largely an ornamental piece of furniture since Peter’s mother had died, nearly thirty years before – he had selected various photographs. On his bedside table, he had placed the one Peter had brought with him to Tangiers of the two of them – looking at it every morning when he woke up and every night before he went to sleep served to Bertie as a reminder of the affection that had run between the two of them, and of the support he felt Peter would have given Bertie in his role. The vanity table housed a rather larger collection, with five photographs arranged in a simil-semi circle. On one end was a picture of Bertie with his Army comrades before the War had started, which served as a stark reminder of all the people who had died. On the other end, there was a photograph taken at George’s Christening, with him holding the toddler, and the rest of the Armstrong family huddled around him. The two pictures each side of those two were of his parents, one taken on their wedding day, and the other with Mother holding a very young Bertie on her knees as Father stood behind them. Taking centre stage was a picture of the two branches of the Pelham family; Cousin William and his wife, Cousin Frances, were each putting a hand on one of Bertie’s shoulders, whereas Father and Mother had done the same with Peter. Bertie still remembered vividly the day that photograph had been taken, even though he had only been seven at the time. It had been in honour of Peter’s ninth birthday, when the boy had requested a private playdate with Bertie as his birthday present (knowing he would still receive a plethora of other ones, in spite of his proclamation of only needing that to be content), and they had spent the whole day together having fun around the castle grounds. Cousin William and Father had taken them out to ride on ponies, and neither Peter nor Bertie had fallen off, even though they had been less than stellar riders at the time. It was sad to think that all that remained of that portrait were Bertie and his mother, and the memories they held of that day. Bertie never looked at the bedside table on the unoccupied side of the bed, for though it lay empty, whenever he did, he pictured on it a photograph of Edith and himself (possibly with Marigold between them).

In the darkness of the early hours of the morning, however, none of those pictures had been visible, and Bertie had simply gotten out of bed, thrown his nightgown on, worn his slippers and gone to the dressing room to find his riding attire. He hadn’t had occasion to wear it out a lot, since he hadn’t ridden much in the past few years, but it felt as comfortable on him as it had when he had bought it years before. He had worn the first pair of shoes that he had managed to find and had quickly headed downstairs to the service rooms, where he had needed to pick up his riding boots and the keys to the stables. He had made the trip hastily because he had feared that someone would soon wake up to do the fires, and he hadn’t wanted to have to stop and explain himself. The note had been left for a reason, after all.

When he arrived at the stables, he only had to pick a horse that would suit him, and his heart settled on Skamandros, a dark bay stallion, that appeared to be black in the scant lightning, with white markings. Bertie knew him to be a stayer, as was evidenced by his height and slim build, which served Bertie’s purpose fitly because he intended to ride for a long time, and hopefully at a decent speed as well. Peter had named the horse, insisting on the Ancient Greek variant of the name to emphasise its meaning. He hadn’t wanted it to be dubious whether the stallion had been named after the river of Troy, one of the sons of Pan, or any of the many people and horses who had borne the name of Xanthos. Peter had believed the horse fast and unpredictable like a river’s water, and Skamandros had proven his worth by winning two races in his prime. Now, by no means old, the horse had been retired, left at Brancaster’s stables, where he could enjoy some peace and tranquillity while he sired, hopefully, future champions.

Though he knew the horse didn’t recognise him as his owner, and so he was confident that he would be able to saddle him without any violent opposition. He approached him, and noticed that the horse was one of the few who didn’t react with agitation to his presence; before thinking of saddling him, he patted him gently on the muzzle, until Skamandros came forward and Bertie could reach his neck. He took the curry comb that had been placed within easy reach, and started to curry the horse until it became evident that Skamandros would let him in his enclosure. Bertie took great care in making sure his cleaning was thorough, and, after his currying, used the horse brush to make the coat shiny. When he finally brought him out, Skamandros’ form reflected the first rays of the sun as it climbed over the horizon.

Mindful of the relative lack of lighting, Bertie started his ride at a slow pace, but soon he felt Skamandros rebel beneath him, and so allowed the stallion to gain a bit of speed, until he was trotting. There was something different about seeing Brancaster in the first light of day, on horseback. Bertie felt, for the first time since he had become Marquess of Hexham, like he could actually fulfil his role. The fields that expanded at his feet appeared conquerable, at last, and as Skamandros led him forward, with each step Bertie felt like the stallion’s hooves were marking Bertie’s territory. Bertie didn’t want or need it, obviously, but if he had to own it, then he had better seize it. He waited for a half hour at best, just until he trusted the horse’s eyes as well as his own to see any treacherous hole in the ground, before he leaned down on Skamandros’ back and set him to a gallop. The horse ran, free as the wind that gusted against Bertie’s face, taking sudden turns and jumps when the land required it of him and leading Bertie more than Bertie was leading him. The single blades of grass soon blurred together to create a sea of green, which made Bertie feel like he was running on water, his horse flying like Pegasus on wings of air and freedom. They eventually reached the farms, where the day had already begun in earnest for the farmers. But he didn’t take in anyone or anything, having room in his mind only for the growing sensation of ascendancy.

By the time Skamandros was tired enough to slow down his pace into a trot, Bertie was sure he couldn’t have gotten further from the Castle had he taken his car for a spin. Feeling like he still wanted to be alone – because for the first time in weeks his mind was not cast into a cloud of dysphoria from whence he couldn’t see beyond all the bleakness that regulated his vision of the future, and he thought that he might actually begin to think, to find a solution – he took a scenic route around the property. Skamandros appeared to enjoy the time outside, and Bertie thought the stallion might have actually been missing Peter, who was likely the only person who had bothered to take him out for a proper ride.

Bertie was finally resolved to find a way to get Edith back. He was miserable and despondent, to the point where he thought the staff was much happier to serve their guests than Bertie himself, and where he was certain his mother’s indulgence wouldn’t last much longer. And whatever he liked to pretend, this was not a way to live. He either decided to overcome his anguish by getting over Edith, or he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself and start placing his heart and his pride on the line, and fight for what he really wanted. Had he chosen a different horse that morning, Bertie might have chosen the former, but Skamandros had convinced him to strive for the latter. “Thank you, boy,” he said as he patted his neck. “I’ll take you out more frequently from now on, I promise.”

By the time Bertie had reached the stables again, the stablemaster, Mr Dodd, had already begun his work. Someone from the Castle must have warned him of Bertie’s message, because he himself certainly hadn’t, but the man tipped his hat at Bertie and greeted him politely, much unlike a man worried for the loss of one of his stallions. Mr Dodd took Skamandros himself and promised Bertie to take good care of him, leaving his previous occupation to one of the stable hands.

Bertie, who was very tired and even more dirty, decided to let him to his work and headed through the service entrance to his own quarters. He didn’t wish to be seen by the guests, who certainly weren’t shooting on the day, and he had even less of an inclination to damage any of the carpets by staining them with mud.

Edward, who was the only footman downstairs, helped him minimise the damage by bringing a selection of towels to him, which Bertie used to dry the fresh mud which was still on his jodhpurs, and by carrying his dirty boots inside. Bertie padded inside on his socked feet, and asked Edward, in his own time, to bring Bertie’s shoes back to his dressing room, and to let Mrs Brennan know that he was back and would be ready for lunch in a little over half an hour – it was the first time in weeks that Bertie had a bit of an appetite. Using the service stairs, he made his way to his room, and ran himself a warm bath, and, when he undressed, he made sure that none of his clothes were in danger of staining any surface by placing them inside a wicker basket that was meant for his dirty laundry.

When he finally went downstairs, he crossed Edward’s path again. “Mrs Pelham is waiting for you in the library, Milord. And Mrs Brennan was well on her way to having lunch ready.”

“Thank you, Edward, and don’t worry about the shoes if you don’t have enough time. I won’t need them today. You can think about them after you have had your own lunch.”

“Very well, Milord.” Edward nodded once and disappeared quickly down the corridor.

Bertie made his way to the library, even though he had originally thought of retreating to his study to get some work done. He knew better than to think that his mother would accept seeing him at lunch. If Edward had told him she was in the library waiting for him, it meant that she had impressed on the footman the notion that that’s where Bertie ought to be the second he was ready to see someone. He rather thought sometimes his mother didn’t like the staff because they were all on Bertie’s side rather than hers even more than because they had been Peter’s legacy to Brancaster.

When he entered the library, he found his mother ready for him; she had the look of someone wholly displeased and spoiling for a fight. He would have to struggle even to get a word in edgewise.

“Where have you been?”

 _Hello to you too, Mother. I am well, how are you faring today?_ He knew better than to try his hand at being sarcastic or dismissive of her obvious anger, but still the words begged to be released from his mouth, and he had to make an effort not to give into temptation. “I have ridden around the estate. It had been a while since I had allowed myself the pleasure of doing it, and it was going to be a slow day, so I thought it the best occasion.”

“Before you even had breakfast?” She demanded sceptically.

“I didn’t want to risk running into our guests, and I thought the early hours of the morning would be the perfect time to get away unnoticed.” He didn’t specify the time at which he had left, trusting whoever had taken it upon themselves to alert his mother not to have told her that they had received a note rather than actually seen him.

“I thought guests weren’t going to be a bother.”

“Indeed, they’re not. It’s not a bother to wake up a little earlier to go out of the door, Mother. And I could have prepared something for breakfast had I wished it.”

“Your eating habits have not escaped my notice, rest assured,” she said accusingly. It was only through years of experience that Bertie managed not to buckle under the sharpness of her look. “Bertie,” his mother said when he didn’t respond. “I’m worried about you. You’ve been in a gloom for much longer than is normal, and I know for a fact whatever this is, it does not concern Peter’s death. You’ve mourned for him, I know that much, and though you’re not happy that he’s gone, whatever is ailing you has nothing to do with him. Not anymore.” Bertie neither refuted nor acknowledged the statement. “Does it have something to do with Lady Edith and the reason why she hasn’t been up here to meet me yet?”

“I’m going to London soon,” Bertie said, resolutely not wishing to speak about Edith.

She sighed. “When?”

“Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. I’ll stay for a couple of days at least. Maybe more.”

“I hope you haven’t forgotten about the dinner we have planned for Monday next.”

He had, of course, forgotten about the dinner. Indeed, he had only just remembered that the current renters were going to leave after lunch, though it explained why Edward had been so hurried all morning. “I’ll be back for it, don’t worry, but then I might have to go back again to London. I’m going to stay for a week or so, I think. But I’m not sure.”

“Bertie –”

Whatever his mother would have liked to say was stopped by a rapid knock on the door and Hugh’s face, which appeared somewhat flustered. Clearly, he had had to run to reach him. “Apologies for interrupting, Your Lordship. Only there’s a phone call for you from Lady Mary Talbot, and we’re in the middle of serving luncheon.”

“Did you tell her I was available?”

“No, Milord, I still didn’t know you were back, so I told her I was going to look for you. I only met Edward while I was half-way to your bedroom, and from there I thought it best to come here rather than going back to tell Lady Mary of your presence.” Bertie nodded, and the grimness of his thoughts must have reflected on his face because his mother suddenly looked perplexed. “Your Lordship? Should I tell the Lady you are not in?”

“No,” Bertie decided eventually. “Sorry, Hugh, you can go back to the dining room, I’ll deal with Lady Mary myself.” He followed the footman out the door, leaving his mother exasperated, no doubt.

The papers had alerted him to the fact that Lady Mary had married Henry Talbot, and though he had had no true feelings on the matter, he had wished Henry all the good luck in the world; he might not have liked the woman whom Henry had chosen to be his wife, but that didn’t mean he wished Henry not to find happiness with her. If this call had arrived at all, it was probably because Henry had a positive influence on the insufferable woman, who was so full of herself Bertie thought she had the potential to raise more castles in the sky about her own self-importance than all other people he had ever met combined. He wasn’t about to forgive her, of course, though he knew his own mistakes in the break with Edith had been graver than hers, but he was going to pay her the respect of at the very least listening to what she had to say; whatever reason – or whoever – had prompted her to call him, he wasn’t going to renege his good manners because of her. Besides, a small part of him was worried that something might have happened to Edith, and he would need to know if it were so.

“Lady Mary,” he begun, as soon as the phone was in his hands. “You wish to speak to me.”

“ _Ah. You were there, after all._ ”

He could picture her at that moment, trying to make the conversation as pleasant as possible by pretending nothing at all was wrong. Well, he might be courteous, but he would be damned before he stooped to her level again. He had made that mistake once, and it had cost him the love of his life. He didn’t speak.

“ _Well,_ ” she said, capitulating to his silence. “ _I’m calling to say Edith will be in London for a few days, and I think you two ought to see each other._ ”

“By the fact that it is you who is calling me, rather than Edith, I presume your sister is not privy to this particular plan of yours.”

He heard the swallow, and the deep sigh. “ _She won’t show up if I tell her whom it is she is going to meet, but I can make sure Aunt Rosamund convinces her to go wherever you want her to go, as long as it’s somewhere nice._ ”

Bertie wanted nothing more than to say yes. It was the answer to all of his problems; he had wanted to find a way to see Edith, and this one would definitely work better than any other plan he had come up with (it was a fair deal more reasonable than showing up at the offices of _The Sketch_ or outside her flat, at any rate, and it did incur less of a chance of making him look like a man who should be committed than sending Yearnshire to King’s Cross until she showed up on her way from Downton), but a part of him was still afraid of trusting his happiness to someone like Lady Mary.

“Why would you do this, exactly, Lady Mary?”

“ _Because she’s my sister. And you can call me Mary._ ”

“And was she not your sister that morning, as well, Mary?”

She huffed on the other side of the line. “ _Look, do you want to see her or not?_ ”

“Tell your Aunt there will be a reservation at _The Ritz_ in her name for tonight.”

“ _I’ll arrange the reservation myself,_ ” she said with finality.

He didn’t like the idea of having to be indebted to Mary, of all people, but he resigned himself to the fact that she was bent on making herself responsible for this meeting. “Goodbye, Mary.” He placed the phone down before she had a chance to answer. He didn’t want to have further cause to antagonise her, or for her to antagonise him.

When he went back to the library and told his mother he was leaving for London immediately, she didn’t even pretend to be anything else but worried. She didn’t ask about his intentions for lunch, though, which he counted as a win.


	20. Hearts made weak by time and fate, but strong in will (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first line of dialogue is taken from the season 6 Christmas Special (everything else is my own work).

_ 2 September, 1925 _

Sitting at the table with her in front of him, unable to touch her, scared to death that she would leave at any second, was the most agonising thing he had ever done. He had given it his all; there was nothing else he could possibly say, especially in a public setting, that would bring her back to him more assuredly than the plain truth spoken from his heart. He was sentimental, possibly more than any aristocrat had a right to be, but the truth of the matter was, Bertie would always be a simple man at heart, no matter what people now referred to him as. He was and would always be a country boy, raised with the iron rod of his mother and the austerity of his father to rely on as examples of proper conduct, but free to grow his own heart as he pleased. And if only one thing in his world was true, then it had to be his love for Edith and the sorrow of the past weeks without her.

_ “ _ The only thing I’m not ready for, is a life without you." She stared at him, and he could see the hope there, beneath all the hurt, the hope that she had clearly not dared preserve since their separation, the same hope that was now blossoming within his own chest. He needed to stoke hers, if he had any chance of getting her to at least consider his request. “I was wrong. We both were, really. When I said you didn’t trust me and you agreed with me. If there was a lack of trust, it was something we both share guilt in. But more than that, I think what drove us apart was that we were both afraid for our own reasons. I’m not afraid anymore.”

He had meant to speak more eloquently, but the waiter was back within earshot and that was all he could allow himself to say about the matter. He turned his eyes to the menu, even though he so terribly wished he could watch her and only her for as long as it took her to wrap her head around what he had just said. He half-heartedly skimmed through the selection of food until he found something that didn’t sound too alien to his ears. He had little knowledge about wine and wanted to do better than to embarrass himself by trying to find something in the wine selection that would complement anything either of them chose to eat, so he placed his menu down and turned his attention to Edith again. The waiter chose that moment to come to their table to get their order, and Bertie mentally cursed him for interrupting.

“I want to believe you,” she said when the man had gone. “But before I do, I need you to know everything. A lot more than what I told you already. Only then will I be able to believe you actually mean all of this.”

He nodded and prepared himself to do just that. He hadn’t listened enough during this relationship; he had done a lot of talking, and he had heard all of the words she had spoken. Indeed, he had even read her better than she probably understood, but when it came down to the most important parts, her insecurities and her reluctance, he had brushed them all aside and forged ahead with bull-headed determination of the kind that would have gotten him killed during the War. He wouldn’t commit the same mistake. Not now, not ever again.

“You know who she is, and when she was conceived, but you don’t know the full story.” Her voice was low, barely above a whisper, and he was all too attentive himself about their surroundings to request that she speak somewhat louder. “You know about Michael and the reasons that kept us apart, as well as his motivation for going to Germany, so I won’t go back on those. What I want you to try and understand, is the state of mind I was in when I discovered my condition. A part of me, absurd as it all sounded, had begun to whisper in my ear that he was fine and well, and that the only reason why I hadn’t heard from him was because he had gotten what he had wanted out of me and now he had moved on. There was no way that could have been true, of course, he wasn’t that kind of man, for once, and he wouldn’t have given me so much power over his affairs had he been. Indeed, he would have never left his magazine just for that.”

Bertie nodded, letting her know he was listening as much as encouraging her to keep going. He didn’t know much about Michael Gregson, but even as the man who loved Edith now, he had no qualms believing that the man had been honest and true in his motivations; he had gone to his death because he had wanted to be with Edith, there were no words of ill that Bertie would ever speak of him.

“I thought I had to…” she choked on her own words, and the tears that had threatened to fall from both of their eyes ever since they had seen each other were now so very close to the brink of coming from hers, that Bertie placed his palm upwards on the table within her reach. She took the proffered hand and allowed herself to be strengthened by his touch. After a deep breath, she retreated it and so did he. “I went to a clinic.” The meaning was clear, and even though Bertie knew she clearly hadn’t gone through with that plan, he couldn’t help but internally shudder at the thought. “There didn’t seem to be another choice, not if I wanted to spare my family. But in the end, I couldn’t do it. I  _ wouldn’t _ do it. I couldn’t tell my family, but I loved her too much already.” Edith took a deep breath, and then a sip of the champagne neither of them had yet touched. Bertie did the same out of a need to keep himself occupied rather than because he felt like it.

“Aunt Rosamund was the only one who knew at that point, for a series of reasons I’ll explain another time, if you really want me to. At any rate, she felt like going to Switzerland for a while, and took me with her.” The implication behind that trip was clear, of course, very much so. Bertie interrupted her as he saw the waiter approach with their meals, and when the conversation started again, Edith was much more attentive with the words she used to recount all the events that had followed. The weaning, the separation, the tenant who helped her out, the news of Michael’s death and its aftermath. She didn’t stop until she got to the point where her father and Tom had confronted her with their knowledge – the day the two of them had met.

Through it all, Bertie finally understood. He wasn’t particularly proud of her decisions, though he could plainly see she had been driven to them by her family’s inability to properly express that their love for her was stronger than any shock the news of a child born out of wedlock would bring to the family. He understood how Edith could be grateful to Lady Rosamund for the part she had played in the entire story, but it was clear to Bertie that she hadn’t been remotely as helpful and accepting as a family member ought to have been. He rather thought that of everyone involved, the only sensible person had been Lady Grantham. A lot of heartache could have been avoided if Edith had gone to her mother first. Then again, what did it say about their relationship that Edith had decided not to reveal her secret to the woman who had given birth to her and who, more than anyone else, was supposed to know how bearing a child and bringing it into the world could affect her own daughter?

Bertie had eaten half of his dinner cold because he couldn’t bring himself to chew at a normal pace, but the truth was it had all tasted like ash in his mouth anyway. When the time came to order dessert, neither of them felt much like celebrating, so they declined the offer and reneged on coffee as well.

Bertie requested the bill, for the first time since he had been in his relationship with Edith not fearing the numbers on the paper, and then they left the restaurant. “We shouldn’t be seen out in public together,” Edith commented as they walked across the hotel’s lobby.

“Isn’t it far more likely that someone should remark on our dining together than recognise both of us in the middle of the night as we take a walk?”

“It is,” she agreed. “But I still think it best if I take a taxi. You’re not a land agent anymore, Bertie. You shouldn’t act like one in public.”

He nodded, and took the opportunity to tell her his response to her challenge, for he had yet to give her one. “That is why I need you.” He desperately wanted to take her hands in his, but didn’t out of a sense of property and decorum. “I am that land agent. More than anything I’ve ever been in my life, that is who I am and who I will always be at heart. But I wouldn’t ask you to marry me if all I wanted of you was your knowledge of what it means to be in my position. I’m asking you to marry me,  _ even _ as a marquess, because I’m in love with you, and that is never going to change. I’m asking you to marry me because, even though I wasn’t anyone, you found it in your heart to care for me and love me as I were, with nothing material to offer you. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have liked things to be simpler, but if they’re not, then I want to be with you when I have to face them, because I’m stronger with you than I could ever be on my own.”

Her eyes glistened again, and she nodded. “If you’re sure, then yes, I will.”

Bertie smiled, and though he was bursting to kiss her, he didn’t. He kept himself composed, lead her to the reception desk to ask for a taxi to be called for the lady, and then waited with her outside stoically. “We’ll do things properly now,” he said as an afterthought. “Come to Brancaster with me, and invite your parents as well. We’ll all arrive on Friday. I have a couple of things I should take care of in London before leaving, but I want to settle everything. We will all get to know each other better for a couple of days and then we can officialise things in a way that will make everyone happy.”

“What if your mother doesn’t like me?”

“She’s the one nobody likes,” Bertie said quite seriously. “But she will like you, of that I’m quite certain.”

As a taxi pulled over to the curb, Edith nodded solidly, with the resolution which he so loved about her, and then she helped herself into the taxi, though she spared him a meaningful glance. They were going to do this. Together, they could do whatever they set their minds to.

* * *

_ 3 September, 1925 _

He had gone to bed content, but not quite happy. The public nature of the restaurant had been a necessary evil to sustain, not only because she would have never consented to a private meeting, but also because the only truly private place he knew where he could have talked to her was her flat. Still, managing not to break down in desperate tears, halting the conversation whenever a waiter approached, and pretending to have a jolly good time had been tiresome exercises on his nerves, and Bertie had been all too glad when the night had come to its end – despite the fact that he had been frightfully afraid of it all being a dream, of her reconsidering if left to her own devices. He had decided then and there that he would call upon her the following morning, to organise a less public meeting. There were things they needed to discuss, and there was no getting around that.

When her phone went unanswered, he swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat and extended a call to Lady Painswick, hoping that she, at least, would know how to direct him. And direct him she did, for she told him that Edith was going to be working all day at the office, but that she and Henry both were going to meet her for dinner at the house. Lady Painswick extended her invitation for dinner to him, and though he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to face any member of Edith’s family yet, he had to at least admit to himself that her aunt had always been supportive of him and Edith, which meant he owed her more than to rob her of Edith’s company that night. He accepted, though reluctantly, and did his best not to spend his day fretting.

Henry, bless him, was less intrusive than he was supportive, never asking questions about the engagement and the wedding, but rather congratulating him once, quietly, before launching in a normal conversation that included him as well as Edith.

When dinner finally came to an end, in a very unlikely and unorthodox manner, Bertie asked to be left alone with Edith in the dining room, rather than going through the drawing room immediately. Henry didn’t raise a single problem, and even though Lady Painswick didn’t look too happy about the circumstance, she let it slide. There was certainly not going to be any impropriety under her roof that evening, but Bertie hoped he could be trusted enough to respect the rules at all times.

They were sitting on either side of the table, not opposite each other, but in a way that they both had to turn in their chairs, so that their backs were unsupported, to see the other straight in the eye. He was no masochist, but he thought the strain of sitting so formally without support was a right metaphor for their relationship – an exercise in braving foul weather. It didn’t take Bertie’s left arm long to find its way on the table, a silent, aborted attempt to reach hers, whose position mirrored his. He let the silence settle, until he was certain that neither family nor servants where anywhere near the room. Still, when he spoke, he kept his voice down.

“I have no words to express how grateful I am for this second chance,” he began. “For this reason, I think we should do better this time, and for my part, I believe I should be more open than I was before.”

“Bertie –”

“No,” he stopped her. “Please, let me get through this before you say anything. I find myself owing you an apology, and I want to say it before we try to re-build the foundations of our relationship. And after my apology, you’ll keep on listening to something I really think you should hear.” He waited for her to nod in consent before he began.

“The truth is, Edith, I have been unfair to you. The reason why I came back was that I had no business faulting you for not speaking the truth earlier than you did.” He saw the surprise and how she disagreed with his statement by the look she gave him, but she was true to her resolution to honour his request and did not interrupt him. “You see, I am not an incompetent man, I never found myself in the position of not knowing how to deal with what life expected of me. And when I didn’t know what to do, or how to behave, I found the knowledge and applied it. There was no task I couldn’t accomplish if it was described in a book; I became an Army officer by studying, leaving on the edge of a promotion to Lieutenant Colonel not because of any incompetence or fear of failure, but because my father was on his deathbed and I had no wish to let him die from a distance. When he did die, I didn’t go back to my occupation because I was loathe to leave my mother alone, and when Peter offered me the job as an agent, I made it my job to become one. I extended my knowledge of farming and livestock, I studied modern machinery and less sophisticated instruments, I became as much of a solicitor as I possibly could, and became the best agent that Brancaster could ask for. But when it came to you… the thing is, Edith, there is no book that could have told me how to be the best man for you; treaties, novels, poetry, the whole literary world holds no solution to how a man hopelessly in love but terribly insecure should behave to be a proper companion to  _ you _ .

“And make no mistake,” he added, his voice lowering and his eyes freely welcoming the tears that threatened to fall. “I was, and still am, terribly insecure. I was mortally afraid of not measuring up and not being worthy of you because of my status, that I never stopped to listen when you remarked on your own self-worth. I could be forgiven for not inquiring further when you first said you felt unworthy of me – I had just kissed you for the first time, and I was feeling hopelessly dwarfed in comparison to Michael – but after that, there was no excuse. Even less so for the fact that, no matter how many times you tried to slow me down, I kept rushing ever forward, too afraid that if you were left a second on your own to think things through, you would come to your senses and be rid of me. And then Peter died, and my whole world was turning upside down, and I had nothing to keep me anchored to reality. Nothing but you.” He felt the need to touch her in that moment, to get from her the relief that came when she gifted him with a tender caress and a loving look. But he was far from done, and he feared he wouldn’t be allowed too much time yet. “I didn’t want this responsibility, I still don’t want it. But I was saddled with it, and all I could think about was how you were born for it. I made the exact assumption that I ought never to have made, that what kept us apart was the difference in our social status. For that, I truly do apologise.”

He gave her time to take it all in, knowing now that she needed it much more than he might have originally thought. “I never would have faulted you for that,” she said eventually, quietly. “But I want to thank you for saying it, it makes me feel like we can start on even footing now.” Bertie nodded, happy that she had understood his intentions. “You said, though, that you had more than just an apology to make?”

“I do. And if you thought all of this has been uncomfortable,” he tried to joke, in spite of the lump lodged firmly in his throat. “I think you’ll want to rush out of this room soon enough.”

“Go ahead anyway,” she said, traces of emotion evident both in her voice and on her face.

“If we are to be married, I think we should be less reserved about our families. There’s not much of mine beyond my mother, of course, just some aunt who’ll suddenly name me her favourite nephew in front of all her relations, but there’s quite a bit of yours.” She nodded, letting him follow through. “I have had little chance to truly get to know them, but the thing is, what little I have seen of you with them has made me worry.

“No matter her role in organising yesterday evening, I hope you will not think me too presumptuous when I say that I find your sister’s behaviour rather problematic. I have never had siblings of my own, but I can say that the closest thing I had to that, my relationship with Peter, left me shocked at the way Mary treats you. I will not come between the two of you because it is not my place to do so, but the thought of ever ruining Peter’s happiness just because I was angry with him never even crossed my mind, and the fact that she did what she did to you… well, I’m afraid I can’t see any excuse for it.”

“I wasn’t devoid of guilt over the years, myself. I revealed one of her deepest secrets more than ten years ago, effectively trying to ruin her life. She made me pay for it, of course, but that is no justification on my own behaviour.”

“Again,” Bertie said, “I am in no position to judge that, but everything else you have told me about your relationship with her pointed to one clear conclusion; you outgrew your childish spite, and learnt to be angry and resentful in private, but she didn’t. I will not make trouble with her, but I will not allow her to bully you – nor will I allow the rest of your family to stand back and watch. Because, Edith, I hope you see that for however much they purport to love you, whenever you are with them, you are the worst version of yourself that you can be. And by that,” he said before she could get it into her head that he thought her a bad person, “I mean that you let yourself get overwhelmed by insecurities and feelings of inadequacy that do not belong to the strong, confident woman that you are. You are smarter than any of them, kinder and certainly more suited for this world than they can ever wish to be.”

“You say that because you’re in love with me,” she deflected automatically, much to his displeasure.

“But I don’t,” he opposed vehemently. “Because if I have remarked one thing while I was with all of you, it is that they keep shooting you down, content to sit by while Lady Mary lords over you and her entire queendom, acting like the world should bow to her will by divine right. Well, I’d much rather have a conversation with someone who disagrees with me and tries to convince me of their point of view, than be told by a bully that my ideas are wrong and I’m a weakling for having them. And if at over thirty years of age she still acts this way and is still surrounded by people who claim to love her quite strongly, then I am afraid all those people should be held responsible for allowing her to be so entitled.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet my grandmother properly,” Edith said, beyond the shock he could clearly read on her face.

Bertie slid his hand forward, reaching for hers. She met him halfway through the table and their fingers met. “Just promise me you’ll think on it. I know it’s difficult to take it all in at once, but I want you to be better and kinder to yourself. I mean it. So just do me this favour. And then I will meet your grandmother, and I will speak up against her if you wish me to. Now that I’m a marquess, I think that gives me some right to it.”

She squeezed his fingers. “It’s not the right to do it that I’m worried about.” She laughed. “I’m being horrid towards her, of course, but I’m not thinking straight right now.”

He got up from the table, and circled around to meet her, enveloping her in his arms as he reached her. “Then take your time, I’m in no rush.”

She stayed in the comfort of his embrace until she had steadied herself, and then led him to the drawing room, where Henry and Lady Painswick had been clearly waiting for them. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” Bertie said.

“It’s quite all right,” Lady Painswick reassured him. “I remember being eager for some time to discuss things with my late husband before we married, I know how hard it is to find the right circumstance. Do you want something to drink?”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I have already been here longer than I had imagined I would. I have an early morning to look forward to tomorrow, and I need the sleep. I trust you’ll escort Edith home, Henry?”

“Certainly,” the man answered kindly.

Bertie said his goodbyes and left quickly, apologising once to the butler for the disruption to the servants’ schedule, and looking forward, now more than ever, to the next time he would talk to Edith. He had kept his reservations about her family private for far too long, and was now pleased to have said them out loud to Edith; he truly wished the best for her, and hoped that she could see how much her family had so far disappointed her in that. There was no way forward if she couldn’t get closure on the past. He didn’t wish her to break with them, of course, but he did wish that she would turn a new page, one where she was the one to dictate some – if not all – of the terms of her exchanges with them, that she might be herself truly with them, without fear of becoming an outcast.


	21. Hearts made weak by time and fate, but strong in will (part III)

_ 4 September, 1925 _

They met at King’s Cross, where Bertie had been standing for a half hour in anticipation of Edith’s arrival – he had been, and was bound to always be, too eager to see her than what was appropriate. He had met Mr Bell the previous day to get an update on the situation with Mr Carr. The entire business would take more than a single month to be resolved, of course, and though Bertie trusted Mr Bell and his associate to handle the matter appropriately, he still believed in a direct approach, and wanted to be as involved in the proceedings as was possible and convenient. He didn’t just want compensation from Mr Carr, he wanted to dissuade any other person from trying their hand at swindling him, and he believed the way to do that was to teach Mr Carr a very public lesson.

Edith was smiling when she approached him on the platform, and Bertie was very pleased when they finally made their way into their carriage, and were allowed enough privacy that he was able to properly greet her. He took stock of her trepidation and tried to reassure her as much as possible about his mother, for it didn’t take a thorough investigation to understand that that was the main reason for her apprehension. After that, he talked about more mundane things; first of all, he wanted to explain away the rumours regarding his attachment to Cousin Adele (she had indeed appreciated his efforts at the ball, and their relationship had thawed considerably – he also believed her addressing him as Cousin Bertie afforded her no small measure of influence amongst the peers), thinking it only fair that Edith knew what the dance at the Rothburys’ ball had actually signified. Then, he talked about the mining situation, because his name had been in the papers for that as well, and Bertie wanted her to have the full picture, the one the papers could not be trusted to give. Then, when even that topic had exhausted itself, he proceeded to talk about the dinner they would have on Monday, the one during which he had decided to announce their engagement.

There were more things he wished to discuss with her, most that were closer to his heart than those he had selected, but he didn’t want the train to be the setting in which they talked of them. He wanted to take her for a tour of the Castle, to tell her everything good about his life in the nooks and crannies that he only explored when he wanted to escape the madness and mundanity of life, the ones which were so intrinsically connected to visions of his childhood with Peter, because those were some of the best memories of his life, and Edith was the very best of things that had ever happened to him, and he wished to fill the entirety of Brancaster with traces of her.

When they arrived at the train station, Mr Scott had been waiting there to pick them up. Bertie let the chauffeur handle the luggage with the train station staff, and settled with Edith in the back of the car.

Mother was waiting for them at the entrance, with a full reception from the staff, who all looked quite intrigued by the woman standing next to him. Most of the men had met her, of course, but the maids certainly hadn’t and neither had Yearnshire. For some reason, Yearnshire’s approval actually meant more to Bertie than he would ever let anyone know. Of everyone there to meet them, of course, the only stamp of approval he truly wished to obtain, though, was his mother’s. He would, if forced, choose Edith over his mother, but he did hope never to be faced with that decision.

Before the greetings at the door had the chance to become awkward, Bertie suggested they move inside. After all, he was the actual owner of Brancaster, not his mother, and though he liked the idea of having Edith received with enough respect, he wanted this to be her home more than he wished her to feel like the Queen Mother coming on a State visit. He suggested a move to the drawing room, and Mother led the way.

“I am very glad to finally meet you, Lady Edith. Bertie had talked of you often, and I admit to have been worried when he stopped, this past month.”

“It was a difficult time, Mother, let’s not go over it again,” Bertie said, his hand brushing against Edith’s arm in a show of support before they took their seats on the sofa. He wasn’t going to breathe a word of what had transpired between them if she wouldn’t, and he wanted Edith to know it.

“I’m quite pleased to finally have the opportunity to meet you, as well. Bertie talks of you often and with such great esteem that I must admit to having been quite curious.” That seemed to appease Mother, and Bertie couldn’t be gladder for it.

“Bertie tells me you own a magazine,” she remarked.

Bertie allowed them to carry the conversation from there, happy to only chime in when he had something concrete to add. He wasn’t by any means shy, but he wanted them to find common ground of their own accord, and believed that with two such strong-minded women, it would be best to let them come to their own conclusions about the other. His interventions, at this stage, risked only being a hindrance to their meeting.

Charlton and Matthew came in to serve tea, somewhat earlier than was their norm, and Bertie was glad, because he wanted to show Edith around before her parents arrived later that evening, and the early tea would allow him to actually do it without disrupting the schedule more than he had already done. As soon as he had had a moment to spare for the servants, the day before, he had realised that they would all deserve a compensation for all the trouble Bertie had put them through. The next respite from renters for the season, Bertie would send them on a vacation.

He got up to serve Edith her tea, since Matthew had already provided for Mother’s and Charlton was clearly arranging Bertie’s. He didn’t wish to interrupt the conversation between the two women, and he was the only one in the room who knew Edith’s preferences aside from Edith herself. He took the chance to ask Charlton the time at which he had intended to sound the gong that evening, to know when he should have Edith back inside in time – he fully intended to take her away from his mother’s grasp and on a small tour outside.

When he moved his focus back to the two women conversing, in a turn of conversation he hadn’t anticipated, Mother was asking Edith about Marigold, and Bertie had to struggle not to show his apprehension as the subject was being discussed.

“I wasn’t surprised when Bertie told me he was taking on your ward, since I know he loves children, but I was amazed to learn that you had taken up a ward at all. Given the unlikeliness of men to take on responsibilities that aren’t their own, I thought it rather a bold move on your part.”

Edith didn’t flinch at the words, but he could see that she wasn’t entirely too happy with the words she spoke in response. “I suppose it only shows a strength of character in Bertie that few men possess.”

“And she’s a darling girl,” Bertie added. “I don’t think anyone with a heart who had occasion to meet her wouldn’t fall in love with her. If I can help provide her with opportunities to have a good life, then I shall be glad to do so.”

Edith looked lovingly up at him, and squeezed his hand with her left even as with the right she accepted the cup of tea he had prepared for her.

“And how old is she, now?”

“She is two, three by the end of the year.”

“Then you should be looking into finding a nanny, rather than a governess, for the time being.”

“Actually,” Edith said, looking at him as well as his mother, “I had been considering the idea of sending her to a pre-preparatory school in London. I have been spending a lot more time in London lately than I have in Yorkshire, and it seemed like the right thing to do. Of course, since I won’t be living in London after all, that won’t be possible, but I still would like Marigold to go to school.”

“And so she shall. We’ll find somewhere around Brancaster, but maybe she can start next year rather than this one. That way she’ll get used to the Castle first.”

“Well, I won’t say no to that. Though I suppose it will be a shock to the system, I do support education,” Mother declared. “Especially for women.”

Having found another common ground between them, they conversed until Bertie decided he had given them enough time to like each other. He interrupted the conversation as soon as he found a lull within it, and offered Edith a tour of the inner grounds and the outer walls. It was all they would have time for before the gong was rung. Before his mother could suggest she come along as well, for propriety’s sake, he said he would have Yearnshire as a chaperone. His mother accepted the compromise and let them go.

“Yearnshire?” Edith asked when they were left alone. “Is he the Castle’s expert?”

Bertie smiled. “He is Peter’s old valet, I promoted him to underbutler. He won’t say a word about what he hears and he will keep his distance at any rate. I just wanted to be alone with you for a while, and Mother wouldn’t really have allowed us to be unchaperoned.”

“We’ve never been chaperoned before,” she commented. She was right of course; Bertie had always been free to court her without any interference, and to think that it would be his mother rather than her parents to impose the age-old custom held no small amount of irony in his head. But he didn’t mind either way.

Bertie led her downstairs to the servant’s hall, where Yearnshire had been studying the wine list with Charlton. Bertie was glad to know the man was learning the ropes; while he had no intention of releasing Charlton from his duties as Butler of Brancaster, there was nearly a twenty-year age difference between the two, which meant all the time in the world for Yearnshire to be a butler after Charlton retired.

“I’m sorry for the interruption, Charlton, but I need Yearnshire for the next hour if you can spare him. This should be the last disruption to your schedule, if you’ll believe me.” Charlton looked dubious at that, and Bertie had to concede that he had all the reason in this world not to place confidence in that particular promise. Still, Bertie would do his best not to be as much of a nuisance as he had been thus far.

He led the way, while Edith walked by his side and Yearnshire at a reasonable distance behind them both. Bertie showed her all of his favourite spots within the walls’ enclosure, and though she had been to Brancaster already, she apparently hadn’t had the opportunity to appreciate the Castle properly. She explained that she had taken a walk around the nearby stream, and Bertie smiled. It was a common route for guests and renters alike to take – anyone who didn’t know the property intimately like he did presumed that the most obvious locations were the ones worthiest of attention.

Before taking her to the  _ chemin de ronde _ and offering her the view he preferred of the entire estate, Bertie wished to learn about her impression of his mother. He took her hand in his as he inquired after it, in an attempt to reassure her about the fact that he could take all the honesty she was willing to share.

“She’s bright, and interesting,” Edith begun. “And she is utterly devoted to you, that much is obvious. But I do understand what you meant when you described her as stern.”

Bertie smirked. “I never used that word, only much graver ones. But thank you for being moderate in your criticism. She liked you, by the way.”

“And when did she tell you that, exactly?”

“She didn’t have to, she’s my mother.” He gave her a quick kiss on her temple, before leading her up the stairs, and then sent a look Yearnshire’s way, hoping that the man would get the hint that Bertie wished to be given some visual privacy soon, once they had reached the wall walk. A simple nod in response to his look let him know that he would have it.

When they reached his spot, he stopped her and waited for Yearnshire to surpass them before wrapping his arms around her and enveloping her from behind. “I’ve wanted to do this for over a month,” he whispered in her ear, as he held her as close as he possibly could. “This is my favourite spot in the whole world. The view is stunning, of course, but it’s more than that. There’s a quiet strength to these stone walls, that you can’t quite grasp when you’re inside. It has always given me a sense of solidity, of security. And having you in my arms, right here, right now, it makes me feel like I can tackle anything in the world.”

“I love you, Bertie.”

It might have been that he had only heard her say the words once before, but he felt like he could never get tired of her saying them. Indeed, he looked forward to the next time he would hear them, and every single instance after that. He would do all in his power to keep her loving him enough that she could express her sentiment aloud. He turned her around, and leaned down for a kiss. He was glad not to have his hat on at that time, because he would have hated to lose contact with her even for the short time it would have taken him to take it off.

When they separated – slowly and reluctantly – he noticed her eyes sliding over Yearnshire, who was standing with his back straight facing opposite them. “He’s either a terrible chaperone or a very perceptive man. I can’t decide.”

Bertie chuckled. “He’s the only one I told about breaking with you. He had been trying to help me find a way to convince you to give me a second chance, before your sister called.” Edith looked perplexed. “I’ve known him since we were all children. He came here as a hallboy; he was an orphan, and when he proved to be a hard worker, the butler decided to recommend him as footman to Cousin William. He saved Peter and me whenever Peter felt like escaping the governess and hide around in the Castle. He never breathed a word about anything Peter got up to, and when my cousin was old enough to have a valet, Yearnshire was his choice. He knew Peter better than any other man, better even than I did, most likely. I feel like he is the only other person who will mourn his death.”

“The staff here seems devoted to you,” Edith commented.

“They were used to seeing me around as the agent, and I partook in my fair share of meals with them downstairs. Peter treated them kindly, but when he wasn’t around, I was his face here, and I think they liked that. My mother thinks they are taking too many liberties, and probably doesn’t approve of the fact that they are all so very focused on the renters, and so very little on the two of us, but I won’t change any of them unless they give me reason to be dissatisfied.”

“You’re an amazing man, you know that, right?”

He leaned down for another kiss, briefer and less involved than the one they had only just shared. “I’m made better by your love.”

* * *

_ 8 September, 1925 _

Harry had been the second person he had called to announce his engagement, after his mother, and though there was no way to invite him to what had transformed from a gathering of peers who didn’t seem to dislike Bertie to an engagement dinner, Bertie had wanted Edith to meet him and his family, so he had organised a luncheon with the Armstrongs while Edith and her parents were still at Brancaster. He had plans for it as well, though no one had been made privy to those aside from Edith herself.

Ada and Edith hit it off immediately, and Lady Grantham, because of her new role, gushed over Harry being a doctor and over Thomas’ apparent aptitude for the medical field, which was always good, but Bertie had to make sure his mother wasn’t left alone with Lord Grantham for too long, since she seemed to take great pleasure in breaking down all sorts of social conventions in his presence to embarrass him beyond what was usual even for her. He needn’t have worried, of course, because whenever the children were around, her cantankerous personality took a vacation; Bertie hoped that the same would happen with Marigold, for he didn’t think the shy little girl he had met would be able to endure his mother’s personality otherwise.

When luncheon was finally served, Bertie made sure to include even the children in the conversation as much as possible. George and Margaret excitedly recounted their time spent in Plockton as the highlight of their summer.

“Uncle Bertie taught me how to fish,” George declared.

“You weren’t very good at it,” Margaret intervened. “But you were quite good at riding the bicycle. Better than me, at any rate.”

“Fishing takes time, and as long as you have the patience for it, you can learn.” Bertie loved the children so much, he couldn’t ever imagine himself being parted from their affection.

“Especially now that you’re no longer too sad to teach me properly.”

“It wasn’t his being sad that prevented him from teaching you,” Thomas defended his godfather. “It was just your pig-headedness.”

“Thomas!” Ada exclaimed. “Have you forgotten your manners?” Thomas apologised immediately, but Bertie wasn’t in the least bothered by the exchange, and if he had to judge from Edith’s expression and Lady Grantham’s, neither were they. Lord knew his Mother thought the children unable to do any wrong.

However, through it all, Bertie couldn’t help but notice that Elizabeth was very quiet, and he gave Edith a look to ask her to change that. Bertie knew that if he were the one trying to make Elizabeth come to terms with Edith’s position in his life, the girl wouldn’t take it kindly.

“Elizabeth,” Edith told the girl, “Bertie tells me you are interested in literature?”

The girl, addressed directly, could no longer find excuses to keep silent. “Yes,” she answered. “I mean, yes, Lady Edith.”

Edith smiled encouragingly. “You can do away with the title. All of you, really. Bertie speaks of you as family and I hope you will allow me to do the same soon enough.”

“That’s most kind of you to say,” Harry spoke on behalf of all of his family. “If Bertie’s tales about you are even half as true as reality, we would be honoured to consider you a friend.”

Smaller pockets of conversation formed after that, but Edith maintained her focus on Elizabeth. “Bertie mentioned you might like to become a critic.”

“It was just an idea,” Elizabeth defended herself.

But Edith wouldn’t be discouraged. “Because I was thinking, if you would like, you could come down to London one weekend, and I could show you around my office; my editor studied at Girton College, at Cambridge, and I’m sure she could tell you a lot about your options. And when you’ll have a better idea of what you actually want to pursue, maybe we could go visit some universities and colleges together.”

Elizabeth’s eyes had become increasingly wider the longer Edith spoke, and when she was done, Elizabeth chanced a look in Bertie’s direction, as if asking for directions. “You can come down with me, so your parents won’t have to worry about you taking the train alone, and while the two of you do your thing, I can get some work done.”

“I’d love that,” Elizabeth said, with the giddy enthusiasm Bertie had missed about her. “Did you hear that, Mum? Edith offered to introduce me to her editor, so that I can learn a bit more about universities and a career in literature.”

“I hope you don’t mind, Ada.”

“And maybe,” Bertie intervened, louder, this time, “we could take another weekend down in London to get both Elizabeth and Margaret a dress for the wedding?”

“Bertie,” Harry intervened. “I can’t accept that, you know it.”

“It wouldn’t be Bertie’s expense,” Edith answered in his stead. “I want them to be my flower girls, and that means their dresses are part of Papa’s contribution to the effort.”

“Quite right,” Lord Grantham intervened, though he looked as perplexed as Harry and Ada. Admittedly, Elizabeth was somewhat old for the role of flower girl, but if it helped Bertie bring her to accept and like Edith, then he wouldn’t mind the break with tradition. They had discussed the matter together before Harry had arrived, and they had decided that their idea needed to at least be voiced.

The desperately longing looks of both Margaret and Elizabeth combined were more than either Harry or Ada could take. “Very well, then. Just don’t find other excuses to spoil the children. Or any of us, really.”

“Does that include asking you to be my best man?” Bertie asked.

Harry’s smile was visible even under his moustache. “Exceptions can be made.”

“Good,” Bertie said, raising his glass. He was followed by everyone else, even by the children, who lifted glasses of grape juice. “Because I wasn’t taking no for an answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end, now. The last chapter, unlike how it's been so far, will be divided in two rather than three parts. That means, that we've only got two updates left.


	22. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield (part I)

_ 5 October, 1925 _

Bertie worked as he had before becoming the Marquess of Hexham, with dedication and purpose, but soon enough he had to concede to the evidence of his change in status; he had suggested lunch at the pub close to the hospital to Harry, once, only to find that the atmosphere had not been the same as before his inheritance. Once the pub owner had addressed him as Lord Hexham, a quiet had settled over the pub, while at the same time a murmur had started amongst its patrons. In addition to that, while for most of the autumn Brancaster had been let, expectations were high for him to invite guests over when he was the true master of the castle. The Deacon of Hexham had written more than once to politely inquire after Bertie’s ideas about furthering the Church’s interests in the area, and his mother had quite helpfully pointed out that being filthy rich meant throwing money left, right and centre to whichever cause demanded it.

Bertie had resigned himself to throwing a dinner in between each letting of Brancaster, and to dedicating more time to think about what causes he really ought to support in the area. For that reason, he had requested Edith’s counsel. She was much more used to this type of commitment, for once, and he had hopes that she would pick up some of his work once she officially became his wife – he didn’t intend to make her a slave to her duties as Marchioness, but he would need her help in some things. Edith had suggested he might wish to involve himself in the hospital – for which he could rely on Harry’s support – education for less fortunate children – she had suggested it for females especially, but Bertie believed in equal opportunities on that front and had decided not to make a distinction – and the Church. Bertie would leave most of the work with the Church to his mother, and use her help on local fairs and trade shows, but the rest would be up to him. Further inquiries in the conditions of coal miners, finally, had convinced him to become a supporter of miners’ rights, though exactly how that could be achieved beyond his vocally proclaiming himself one was still somewhat hazy.

In between all of his new commitments and the keeping of his old duties, Bertie found the time to head to London to visit Edith. He made sure that she knew ahead of time when he was required to go down to meet with Mr Bell over the lawsuit against Mr Carr or when he had meetings to arrange Hexham House’s future as a museum house, and she was always there to see him. Unfortunately, despite the fact that their courtship was very much public after the announcement of the engagement, Bertie was mostly too tired to ever make use of his title to get reservations at the best restaurants and clubs of the Capital. Edith had been understanding enough to suggest they might have a simpler intimate dinner, and they mostly made use of her Aunt’s presence in London to meet more privately. Lady Rosamund was possibly Bertie’s biggest supporter, and never had enough of praising him and making him feel accepted as Edith’s fiancée. Unfortunately for Bertie, that meant that her eagerness to please was draining. After the third such dinner, Bertie had decided to invite Edith over at Hexham House, hoping for a bit more privacy, but the butler had made as much of a fuss as Edith’s aunt, and Bertie had finished the night more exhausted than he had ever been.

Though he would have never complained openly, Edith had seemed to pick up on his mood, because at the end of that particular night she had suggested that he go to her flat the next time, so that she could repay his invitation. He had kissed her in plain sight of his butler.

He showed up at her flat with a red and white bouquet made of amaryllises (for splendid beauty) and white chrysanthemums (as a symbol of his loyal love). He had spent two hours at a florist trying to get the perfect combination to give her, and the result was a radiant smile on Edith’s part. She didn’t need his explanations to know what his bouquet stood for, apparently the meaning of flowers was something she had learnt from her governess.

“I never really thought it would be useful, but there you go.”

“I wish I had had a governess to teach me the symbology of flowers when I was young; I spent a stupidly long amount of time at the florist being lectured on their meanings.”

“Did you take notes?” She asked, jokingly.

“Many,” he replied in all seriousness. “I’ve drawn a list of what flowers to get you in the future, don’t worry.”

She leaned into his personal space at that, and he met her lips halfway as they raised to meet his in a fervent kiss. “Hi,” she whispered when they separated. It was then that he remembered he hadn’t greeted her yet, too enthused about his floral accomplishment. “Thank you for taking the trouble to learn what flowers mean rather than simply buying a dozen roses. I know it’s not your favourite pastime and that you could do something more useful with your time.”

“Hi,” he answered, with a giddy smile. “I may grumble, but I would find a way to give you the stars if that would make you happy. I’m so very much in love with you, I hope you know that.”

“I do. And I love you, too.” She paused for a while, their foreheads resting against each other’s. “And I hope you’ll love me enough to forgive me. My charlady was taken ill this afternoon, and had to go back home. She left me a note saying that she hadn’t managed to prepare dinner.”

Bertie closed his eyes. “Do you have food, at least?”

“Yes. I don’t know how to cook it, but I do. I could probably boil us an egg and prepare some vegetables, but I’m not really a chef.”

“It’s all right,” Bertie reassured her. “Just give me five seconds, and then I’ll take care of dinner.”

“I thought you didn’t want to go out,” Edith commented. “Indeed, this whole invitation was about making you rest.”

“I don’t.” He opened his eyes and watched her. “I actually know how to cook a dish more complex than boiled eggs,” he revealed with a joking tone. Her eyes widened. “Well, don’t look so surprised, I might be a marquess now, but I was raised a proper country boy, running around my mother’s skirts while she busied herself with preparing dinner. Well,” he amended, “maybe she didn’t wear a cook’s clothes, and maybe I wasn’t allowed to run around in the kitchen – or any other parts of the house except the garden – but you get the picture.”

“Is there something you don’t actually know how to do?” She answered with a tone somewhere between exasperation and admiration.

“Many things. But I’m not revealing my secrets all at once.”

They moved to the kitchen soon after that, as he asked what the intended dinner had been, so that he could see if he could replicate it, or at the very least so that he might use the ingredients to prepare something he was familiar with. He removed his suit jacket and donned an apron, much to Edith’s amusement, but despite the short teasing he received once he had put it on, she paid very close attention to what he was doing, and asked questions, displaying a keen interest. He wouldn’t use her as an aide in the near future, but he did see the potential in her to become at least adept at doing something slightly more elaborate than boiled eggs.

He didn’t mind in the least having to cook, despite her continuous inquiries to that end. Yes, he was tired, and he might not have made use of his culinary skills often, since they weren’t stellar and he had often had his mother or a cook to provide nourishment for him, but with Edith at his side to pass the time, he had no opposition at all to the activity. They conversed easily until the food was ready, and then he took the decision to set the table in the kitchen; she didn’t look accustomed to the frugal arrangement, but Bertie wanted her to know a bit of himself which he doubted she would get to experience now that he was a marquess.

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?” She asked, after having complimented his chicken.

“I didn’t. I thought I’d be able to tag along with whatever plan you might have had, but I received a phone call this afternoon,” he lamented. “It means I’ll have to leave for home tomorrow soon after breakfast.”

“Did something happen at Brancaster?”

“No, I’m only passing home because I need the car, but I’m going up to Naworth Castle. The Earl of Carlisle has invited me there, and I can’t refuse since he’s doing me a favour.” At her perplexed look, he realised he hadn’t yet told her about his plans for Hexham House in detail. “The ninth Earl was a painter, and Peter admired him greatly; his grandson, the current Earl has been helping me out with finding the appropriate manager and funds to set Hexham House as a museum. There’s a whole world of insurances and staff which I knew nothing about, and he’s been very gracious in helping me out, but I couldn’t expect him to set his schedule around mine. Since he wrote to me to apologise for not being able to attend Peter’s service, I think I owe him some sincere consideration.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“He invited me for two nights, even though by all rights I could go back to sleep at Brancaster, since it’s not that far. They’re good people, as far as I remember, though, so it’ll be good to get to meet them properly.”

“Would you be opposed to the idea of coming to Downton for a night after that?” She asked almost shyly.

“I’m never opposed to the idea of spending time with you,” he reassured her. “Besides, I had a thought the other day. I still haven’t met your grandmother, and I think it’s high time I did.”

“Are you quite certain that you want to meet her before the wedding?”

“The only time I saw her, she gave me the impression of someone who knew and spoke her mind, someone who would make either a very powerful ally or a staunch opposer. And I’m of the mind that most of what she could have criticised about me is no longer an issue. But,” he declared conclusively, “even if she were to dislike me intensely and try to send me running for the hills, I won’t go anywhere without you, at this point. I made that mistake once already, and I’m not about to replicate it.”

“Good, because there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She leaned forward and took his hand in hers, squeezing with delicate strength. “I’ve thought about what you said regarding my relationship with my family. And I think you’re right. It’ll take some effort, but I promise to try my best at it. And if you catch me reverting back to my old habits, I want you to let me know, so that I can fix them with you.”

* * *

_ 8 October, 1925 _

The visit to Naworth Castle had been pleasant; Bertie had managed to feel like he had been making a friend out of the Earl. The man had the Army imprinted in his soul, and a taste for politics that Bertie didn’t share but admired. Indeed, the Earl had convinced Bertie that he should give the House of Lords a proper go when next they convened. Obviously, the last sessions had been in a very inconvenient moment, just at the tail end of Bertie’s succession, which had come with the loss of Peter and the temporary – though at the time seemingly definite – break with Edith. Even had Bertie wished to give the Lords a try, he had not been in the right frame of mind for it. On the business side of things, Lord Carlisle had introduced Bertie to the man who would take care of concretising Bertie’s plans for Hexham House, an art historian who was very renowned for his work in London 

Bertie had still been glad when the visit had been over, because it had meant that he could soon be at Downton with Edith. He had gone directly from Naworth Castle, driving his car because it would save him all the fuss of getting different trains and wasting most of his morning. When he arrived in front of the Abbey’s entrance, however, he barely had the time to unload before Edith forced him back in the car and gave him directions for the Dower House. Apparently, they were going for a morning visit. “I thought your grandmother was coming to luncheon. And dinner.”

“She is,” Edith agreed. “I still want you to meet her when she is alone. Cousin Isobel is definitely coming to dinner, and there’s a tendency towards confrontation when the two of them are together. I don’t want you to end up a victim of the cross-fire.”

“Your family seems to provide an endless source of amusement to its guests,” Bertie smiled, much to Edith’s exasperation.

“No jokes when we’re at the house, and whatever you do, do not be your usual charming and helpful self with the butler. I like Spratt as a writer, but he’s a veritable stickler for tradition when it comes to his job for Granny.”

Bertie nodded, still unable to contain the smile whenever he was reminded of Mr Spratt’s alias of Miss Cassandra Jones. He had never met the man, of course, but the irony of Lady Grantham being served by a man who hid his identity behind that of a woman was not lost on him. When they arrived and Bertie had a chance to actually see the man, the effort it took not to laugh was greater than anticipated, though it did help him be less useful – which had been what Edith had wanted of him.

They were shown into the garden, where the Dowager was enjoying the last of the warmth of early autumn, afforded by a rare day of sunshine. Bertie let Edith take point, and was content to walk a step behind her. Edith had not told her grandmother that she should expect them, and it showed on her face.

“This is a surprise,” the Dowager Countess stated. Bertie didn’t think it was a judgment-free comment.

“Hello, Granny.” Edith leaned towards her grandmother to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I thought you could meet Bertie properly.”

Bertie removed his hat. “It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Lady Grantham.”

“I must confess to being quite curious about you as well, Lord Hexham,” the old lady admitted. She indicated that they should sit, and Bertie did as he was bid immediately after Edith. “I do wonder at the reason why you didn’t think luncheon would be an appropriate time to meet.”

“I didn’t want you to be meeting him while you were upset over something else.”

“Why would I be upset? Did someone do something I ought to be upset about?”

“No, Granny, but you always find reason to be upset at someone.”

“I somehow don’t think you’re being very helpful, Edith,” Bertie chanced.

“Well,” the Dowager commented. “At least he’s perceptive.” Bertie took Edith’s hand in his as he thanked her grandmother for the back-handed compliment. “So tell me, Lord Hexham, which of your virtues are you going to try to impress me with today?”

“None, Lady Grantham. I’m afraid my sole purpose in being here is to finally make your acquaintance. If I shall have your stamp of approval afterwards, I will be most pleased, but either way today was long overdue.”

“You know, everyone speaks very highly of you, despite everything that transpired.”

“Still, I get the impression you don’t let other people’s opinions influence your mind.”

“Very perceptive,” the Dowager remarked, looking at Edith. It felt like Bertie had broken down a barrier.

“That’s not his best quality, if you’ll believe it.”

“Ah, I see Lord Hexham already has you beat on understanding how little I like to be told what to think.”

“She’s anxious for us to like each other,” Bertie intervened, realising now that Edith had been genuinely overwrought about the meeting, truly explaining why Bertie was at the Dower House despite the fact that they would have met at lunch in little more than an hour. “I suppose considering my actions only a couple of months ago, she is entitled to some apprehension.”

“You don’t like to beat about the bush, do you, Lord Hexham?”

“Not when honesty can help me cut to the chase.” Bertie felt as though a battle was being waged, but he had no munition with which to counterattack, rather only some scraps which he should do his utmost best to fashion into an armour strong enough to sustain her assault. But Bertie had fought tougher battles, and not just literal ones, either – he had had to contend with an army of people who hadn’t believed in his right to ascend to a powerful position in the County, for starters – and though the Dowager Lady Grantham was undoubtedly a strong and uncompromising individual, he knew her ilk, for his mother wasn’t too far removed from it. Knowing that, though he had definitely only scratched the surface with the Dowager, meant that Bertie knew on which fronts he had to defend himself, and on which others he was best suited to bare his soul, that she might come to appreciate him for the man he truly was.

“Very well, then you won’t mind telling me what changed your mind. Somehow, I don’t think a call from Mary was all it took for you to revisit your position,” she commented quite sharply. Bertie didn’t know whether Mary had boasted to her grandmother about her role in reuniting him with Edith, but, by hook or crook, he thought the Dowager would have found out regardless.

“Granny!” Edith intervened.

Bertie stopped her before she could say anything further. “It’s all right, she has a right to ask, and it’s nothing I’m afraid to admit, at any rate. I believe,” he said sincerely, “I never for a second liked the decision I had taken, and when I went to see the buried remains of my cousin, I knew for a fact I had made the biggest mistake of my entire life. It took me a while longer to realise it,” he admitted unabashedly, “and longer still to understand and accept my mistakes. But when I did, there was only one constant thought in my mind, and it was to find a way for your granddaughter to accept me back.” He looked the Dowager in the eyes for the entire time he was addressing her, wanting to let her know how serious and committed he was to Edith’s happiness. He would not be cowed into not being honest by the woman’s sternness.

“And the girl?”

Bertie took a quick look around, ensuring that no one might be within earshot. “Marigold has done nothing wrong, and I see no reason to fault her for any of this. I was never angry with her, if that’s what you meant.”

“No, that’s not exactly it.”

“If this is about Bertie making her feel any less loved because of her birth, you shouldn’t worry,” Edith intervened. “He has asked Papa’s solicitor to draw up the papers to pass her guardianship over.”

“Since Lord Grantham is her official ward, and since my own solicitor is somewhat busy with a lawsuit at the moment, I preferred leaving the matter in his solicitor’s hands. Things shouldn’t be too complicated since she’s a girl, and there’s not much issue with the inheritance.”

“And your mother has no objection?” Lady Grantham seemed intent on finding and exposing all the problems that might interfere with their union, but Bertie refused to bow down to her dogged determination.

“She doesn’t fault Marigold, either, and though she might have preferred not to have to deal with a situation such as this, she does like your granddaughter.”

“Yes, Cora told me what Mrs Pelham said about the matter. Words and facts are not necessarily the same, though.”

“She meant what she said,” Bertie reassured her, although he felt that Edith had possibly needed the words more than her grandmother.

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s my mother,” he said with finality. “And if I’m half the man I am, I owe it to her and her education.”

There were no more objections after that, just polite conversation, in which all three of them participated equally. The Dowager was an interesting character, to be sure, and half the time Bertie struggled to understand whether she was being serious or joking, while the other half he hoped he had misunderstood her intentions but knew he hadn’t. It hadn’t gone half as badly as he had anticipated, however, and by the relief he saw on Edith’s face, he thought he might not have been the only one to come out of the encounter with a feeling of accomplishment. By the time the conversation came to an acceptable lull, it was close enough to luncheon that Bertie offered to drive Lady Grantham to the Abbey with Edith and himself; there was little need to inconvenience her chauffeur, so she accepted.

When they arrived, the first thing Tom asked him when he saw him was whether or not Bertie had survived, and though he was truly tired, Bertie’s response was entirely honest. “Definitely.” It earned him a smile and a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

Luncheon was an overall pleasant affair; he had plenty enough to talk about with Henry and Tom that he didn’t feel like he was being singled out. After having had a chance to properly get to know them, he had come to the realisation that he didn’t dislike Lord and Lady Grantham (he actually thought Edith’s mother was very pleasant), but he always felt under some kind of scrutiny with them, as if his every action might be questioned at any given time for no other reason than because he was an outsider. He might not always be one, but he certainly was now, and he thought that had much more to do with his attitude than the fact he wasn’t married to Edith yet. Tom might have been a shock in his time, but Bertie thought he was harder to understand than Tom. His simplicity was much more questionable, in light of his newfound role.

Questions about the wedding were made, but Bertie was happy to let Edith answer those, since she was clearly going to take most of the important decisions – he certainly wasn’t going to intrude in the choice of flowers or food, his only interest laying with the guests he wanted to invite.

After lunch, though Edith proposed a walk outside, Bertie asked if she would mind him spending time with Marigold instead. He was tired enough to wish to be inside and possibly lethargic, but he didn’t want to retire to his bedroom for a nap. He had some correspondence to see to, and he took care of that before going to see the children, since they would probably be resting. Edith, of course, was more than happy to oblige his request, smiling as though she had seen the sun for the first time in months.

He was glad to see the little girl was still wearing the bracelet he had given her as a gift, and that the other children remembered him as well, and was overjoyed when Sybbie asked him for a piggy-back ride. Apparently, that was the children’s favourite activity, and one that they had not partaken in too often since the underbutler, Mr Barrow, had left. They read and played as well, and Bertie did his best to keep Marigold close to him at all times. He wanted her to like him before she was officially told that she would become his ward. When it was time for tea, he and Edith helped Nanny get the children downstairs, and Bertie noticed with some self-pride how Lady Grantham’s eyes lit up when she saw him come in holding Marigold safely in one arm and with Sybbie walking alongside him, holding his hand in her much smaller one.

Bertie didn’t know what his next hurdle would be, but in that moment he felt like he had tackled the worst of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter to go. And because next Friday I'll leave for a bit of a holiday (if everything pans out as it should), the last update will be on Thursday next (i.e. the 13th)... It doesn't seem fair to make you wait until the 23rd.
> 
> I'm not promising anything - mostly because I've got an ongoing original work and little time during my work months (September through June. Yes, you guessed it, I'm a teacher) - but for those of you who would like to read more in this universe, you may leave requests in the form of comments and I'll see if I can be inspired at any point to write more. Bear in mind that I don't really like what the film did to Bertie and Edith, and therefore I sort of not consider it as canon in my mind (more on my Bertie/Edith headcanon as a final note to the last chapter).


	23. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, the last chapter is upon us.
> 
> First of all, I would like to once again thank my beta, BoxyP, who made this work so much better than it could have been with only my eyes as editors. Secondly, I would like to thank all of you who read, liked and (especially) commented the work. It was finished before I started publishing, so I would have reached the end whatever reception I'd have received, but you made my weekly postings a lot more pleasant than they could have been.
> 
> I wanted to give you a few details about the creative process behind the story and the titles, but I'd rather put them at the end than at the beginning. For now, enjoy the last chapter!

_ 30 October, 1925 _

He had kept to his routine, mostly, and was very unlikely to deviate it from it much; work occupied most of his days, and even though he had much more reason to be in London for the arranging of Hexham House and its repurposing (paintings had to be moved around and pieces of furniture were relocated accordingly to better fit the new function they would have to serve), Bertie was now secure in his knowledge that his marriage prospects with Edith were perdurable, and thus allowed himself less freedoms to travel. He preferred to stay more in Northumberland, even if that meant having to ensconce himself in a single room to prevent the renters and their guests from seeing him. He had kept his promise to Elizabeth and Margaret and brought them to London with him for a weekend of shopping, even though he had mostly left them with Edith while he attended a meeting with Mr Bell. Mr Carr had finally been found guilty and had been made to pay back all the money he had embezzled, as well as give up the shares in the mines he had acquired illegally and the profit he had enjoyed through their acquisition.

The newspaper coverage of the case had been large enough and, for once, Bertie had encouraged it rather than minimise its extent. He had wanted to send a clear message that he would not be made a fool of, and that had been the safest and least expensive way to do it; indeed, he hadn’t had to do anything more complex than come out of the courthouse on the day of the ruling and walk past the journalists with a dignified look. Mr Bell had approved of the situation and Bertie had asked him for a viable list of honest and capable administrators to go through. He had come to a decision; though it pained him to admit it, he wouldn’t be able to fully deal with all the workload he had always taken upon himself, the added burden of the mines, and his role as Marquess of Hexham. Because he was unwilling to capitulate to becoming a purposeless Lord of the Castle, however, he had also decided that he would not give up as much control over his affairs as Peter had done, but rather he would entrust the running of Hexham House, Butteryhaugh Hall and the mines to three advisors, whose work he would supervise on a weekly basis, and keep his full authority over the grounds, farms and tenants. It wasn’t what most people would have counselled him to do, but Bertie had no intention of truly transforming into a proper peer and renege his identity as a land agent. He hadn’t lied to Edith when he had told her that was who he was, more than anything else. It was what defined him, and he was reluctant to let go of it, because it might mean that he would lose a part of himself, and he didn’t believe he would profit from that, however much freer he might become from it.

His mother, at the very least, had not expressed any form of dissent to his choice, and neither had Edith, who had just asked him if he would mind it terribly if she kept her own control over the magazine in a similar fashion to the one she was exercising at the time. He didn’t, of course, and not just because he would feel a hypocrite if he were to mind, but because he truly liked her when she was working on the magazine, her intelligence and competence shining through and filling him with pride and humility at the thought that such a strong, independent woman had allowed herself to be courted by him. Never mind the fact that she reciprocated his love. Not only would he have never asked her to quit her job, but he would have encouraged her not to, had she even contemplated doing it. 

During his time at Brancaster, he had taken to spending at least an evening each week with Harry and his family, and joining Harry for lunch as often as he could. It was as good an excuse as any to be out of the way, and to encourage his mother to actually install herself in the section of the castle that would function as her own private apartments. She had a kitchen there, amongst everything else, and Bertie had taken to finding himself there for most of the meals he had to consume at home, despite Mrs Brennan’s wishes to provide and cater for him. It gave him a sense of being still a simpler man, Mr Bertie Pelham, rather than Lord Hexham. It wouldn’t last for long, certainly not once Edith came to live with him for good, but it was enough for now.

It was there that Charlton had found him the week before, to deliver a letter from Lady Grantham, inviting him and Mother to stay at Downton. Bertie had discussed the matter of introducing his mother to Marigold with Edith, and she had admitted to finding it a good idea, but she hadn’t wanted Marigold brought to Brancaster, where the girl would be scared of the unfamiliar environment, and Bertie had agreed. The more people Marigold knew before moving over, the better it would be. For that same reason, Bertie had thought it a good idea to bring Yearnshire along for the visit. He wanted to give Marigold an ally amongst the servants of Brancaster, even though he was quite certain that all of his employees would love her immediately, and he also wanted to see if his people, who had known him for quite some time, would figure out Edith’s connection to the girl. He knew it wasn’t exactly common for servants to involve themselves in the raising of their employer’s children, but he had gotten the impression that the three children at Downton were very much allowed to roam within the household. Besides, even if Marigold wouldn’t see Yearnshire during their sojourn at Downton, at the very least the man could make himself useful by lending a hand to Mr Carson and Andrew, who remained – with Mr Bates – the only two permanent male members of staff at the Abbey.

Mother had been very contemplative on the train ride, retreating into a book rather than giving Bertie any comment on any subject whatsoever, but Bertie himself felt apprehensive about Mother meeting Marigold; the little girl was very shy, and Bertie didn’t think his mother had truly – completely – digested learning of her parentage. She was brusque by nature, and hard to like on the best of days, even though she was quite affectionate in her own way – Harry’s children being the only proof of her being capable of expressing affection in a less-than-frigid way. Bertie somehow didn’t think Marigold was going to be receptive to Mother’s type of effusiveness. Cautioning his mother, of course, would be more detrimental to Marigold’s cause than anything else; much like the Dowager Lady Grantham, Mother disliked being told what to do and think.

Bertie disembarked first from the train, helped his mother to the platform, and then searched the back of the train for Yearnshire, who had travelled in third rather than first class, though Bertie had offered to pay for a full ticket. He saw Edith before he found the man, however, and could not resist the temptation of walking towards her and kissing her; the platform was half-empty, and he had missed her – much as he did whenever he was parted from her. He didn’t allow his lips to linger too long, though, knowing better than to push his luck with his mother behind him.

Yearnshire drove in front with Edith, and Bertie was pleasantly surprised when she engaged the man in conversation. Yearnshire was a good conversationalist, in general, and he had seen enough of the world to be able to adapt to whichever topic was being discussed.

When they arrived, Lord and Lady Grantham were outside, waiting to welcome them, and it felt quite odd to Bertie, since it was the first time anyone but Edith had bothered to come see his arrival. Thankfully enough, only Andrew had come out to meet them for the luggage, and Yearnshire quietly disappeared with the footman towards the servants’ entrance.

He followed his mother inside, Edith at his side, and made his utmost best to look as if he wasn’t as worried about the coming hours as he had been when first he had come to Downton. Luckily for him, he had just enough time to go to his room to freshen up before luncheon was served; despite being placed close to Tom, his attention had to be focused on his mother at all times, because he didn’t trust her enough not to make a cutting remark if left unsupervised. It was all the better that Lord Grantham had seen it fit to squeeze Mother between himself and Bertie, because Mary was in a bit of a mood. She was upset at Henry because her husband was taking repeated trips to York and London without her and, more importantly, without telling her what the trips were about.

“I don’t see that there’s a reason to be upset,” Henry declared. “I’m just stretching my legs and meeting some old friends.”

Mary, of course, wasn’t the only one who didn’t believe him. However, by the fact that both Tom and Edith went to a great deal of effort not to look at Mary as he said it, Bertie surmised that whatever Henry was scheming, the both of them were in on it – Tom more so than Edith, if Bertie knew his fiancée well enough. Edith was trying her best to hide her knowledge, possibly on account of wanting to avoid a confrontation with her sister. Either way, Bertie certainly didn’t care about it enough to get upset over her secrecy. What he did care about was that Edith was keeping to her newfound resolution of managing her relationship with her family better, this time around. It was easy to see that she was making a conscious effort, though it was simpler to navigate a conversation with Tom and Henry for her than it was to weather her parents while at the same time trying to make sure Bertie’s mother was content and at ease.

Bertie himself struggled on a daily basis to figure out how best to approach his mother, so he didn’t begrudge Edith the occasional slip into submissiveness at the lunch table, sending encouraging smiles her way whenever it was clear that she was struggling. Still, if one good thing for Edith had come of Mary’s marriage with Henry, it was apparent that it was Henry’s support of the younger Crawley sister. He was very much a friend of Edith’s in his own right, and a staunch supporter of her cause, even against his wife’s less than stellar attempts at what Bertie thought was an exercise in holding back her sharp tongue.

“You must tell me the next time you’re in London, Henry, maybe we can catch up properly,” Bertie said in an attempt to redirect the conversation. “I’d invite you to Brancaster, but it’s a bit of a logistical nightmare at the moment with the renters in for the season, and the dinners I  _ must _ ,” he stressed the word ironically, “necessarily organise when I have the Castle to myself. Hopefully things will calm down after the last of the guest has gone.”

“You could have, at the very least, cancelled the last letting,” his mother said before taking a bite of food.

“Don’t worry about me,” Henry said to prevent any embarrassment. “I’m more comfortable in a swanky club in London, at any rate. And you can treat Edith, for a change, instead of always using Lady Rosamund to meet up.”

“Oh,” Edith said, ironically. “Are you suggesting we need a chaperone?”

“Absolutely,” Henry stated with exaggerated seriousness. “Your fiancée is a marquess, Edie, you don’t want to give anyone an excuse to make trouble.”

The remark, though made innocently, hit home on more than one front, and Bertie noticed his mother’s hand still on its way to her mouth. She didn’t say anything, of course, and continued to eat and chat as if nothing had ever happened immediately after that, but he knew her well enough that the passing remark would stay with her for a long time. Edith herself didn’t appear to take any kind of offense, and Bertie had to admit that when her virtue was questioned, she didn’t bat an eye; possibly, in her mind, having spent a night with a man who had been willing to change his nationality to marry her didn’t equate to being unvirtuous, and though Bertie might profess that he would never do anything of the sort, he had not found himself in a similar situation, and thus was unable to judge her – even had it been in his nature to be judgemental. The fact that Marigold had been born from that union also meant that there could be no true regret on Edith’s part; there was no mistaking the love Edith felt for her daughter.

After the meal and the conversation let down, Bertie accompanied his mother upstairs when she asked to get changed before she was treated to a walk in the gardens. He followed her to the bedroom she was staying in, much to her displeasure, and closed the door behind himself when he did.

“I do need to get changed.”

“And I shall leave you to it,” Bertie reassured her. “But I need to ask a favour of you first.” He waited for her to nod once before proceeding. “I know what Henry said at the table upset you, and I’m not asking you not to worry about my reputation, because I know that would be futile. But I would like for you to promise me that you’ll do your best not to think of that when you’ll be meeting Marigold later today. She doesn’t deserve that.”

His mother looked at him for a while, without any of the gravity he was used to, but with enough focus that Bertie knew she was making an important consideration. “Do you  _ really _ love her?”

Bertie contemplated his own answer to the question. He had felt a tenderness towards Marigold since the first time he had seen her, sleeping with her head turned towards them, a small bunny as her bedfellow, her features relaxed. He had met her with the intention of liking her ever since Edith had asked him if she could bring Marigold along with her once they had been married. He had certainly never felt any resentment towards her, not even in that second when he had felt the ground shift beneath his feet as Edith admitted regretfully the girl’s parentage. But did he love her? He remembered the feeling of holding Thomas in his arms the first time, the fierce protectiveness that had overcome him, and the wish to make the world a better place so that the babe might live sheltered and happily for the rest of his days – and may they be long days. He hadn’t held a newly-born Marigold in his arms, and would never be able to, for there was no turning back time. And unlike with Thomas, and all his godchildren, the fact that Marigold wasn’t his child meant something; it meant that Edith had loved another man as completely as Bertie wanted to be loved by her for the rest of eternity, and Marigold would always be a surer reminder of Edith’s love for Michael than any inheritance the man might have left her. For those reasons, Bertie found himself thinking that he shouldn’t love the girl; he might grow to like and cherish her, even to the point where he would protect her as fiercely as he did any future children he wanted to have. In spite of all that, there was no denying it. Not to himself and not to his mother; yes, he did love that girl. He loved her more than he had ever loved Harry’s children. And, more importantly, he wanted to be loved by her just as much as he had hoped to be loved by Edith in the very beginning of their relationship, with all the insecurities that characterised him more than he liked to admit to anyone. He ached to be her father.

“More than life itself,” he replied eventually. He smiled at his mother, the thought that her question had been responsible for this sudden realisation leaving him with a sense of relief and gratitude towards the woman who had brought him to the world and raised him to be the man he was today.

His mother nodded once. “Then that’s how much I’ll love her. Now go, I need to get changed before they send someone to check on me.”

Bertie didn’t need to be asked twice.

As he came out of the room, he met Edith, who had been to her room for a parasol. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m being happy,” he answered to her utter bewilderment, before he made way for her to pass him and followed her downstairs, her hand safely ensconced in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story for a few different reasons. Obviously because I love Edith and Bertie, but especially love what Bertie meant and represented for Edith and therefore I thought it right to give him some depth - something that the TV show didn't really do.
> 
> The original idea was to write a bit of a prologue with Bertie's story before meeting Edith, and then going into their lives after the S6 Christmas Special, but the more I wrote, the more I realised I needed to delve into canon to truly give Bertie a voice that I could then apply to something that would leave canon behind. For that reason, I needed characters. And this is where the Armstrongs came into play. We got to see a man with a serious mustache at the wedding (Bertie's best man), and then two flower girls who played with Marigold and Mrs Pelham at the reception, and so I thought that was a good opportunity to bring someone new into play - someone who was outside the Crawley family and could give us an insight into who Bertie was before he became Lord Hexham, someone who even in a follow up to Ulysses could be part of the story.
> 
> The reason why I stopped where I did? Well, I didn't think much of the wedding needed to be written - it's too happy and uncomplicated, and I didn't think it needed to be analysed. Also, my continuation to this story began with Edith and Bertie right after the show left them (in that car going to the train station). I liked the idea of being able to now explore things from another person's POV, aside from Bertie's. Unfortunately the scenes I had written got deleted, and then I got a job as a teacher and my life got swallowed whole by that. I might gain some of that work-life balance I didn't really get this past school year as the new one approaches, but I cannot make any promises and this is why I decided not to write a continuation but rather leave the door open for follow ups in the form one-shots or short multi-chaptered stories.
> 
> I was also curious to see what the film had in store for Edith and Bertie and got promptly disappointed, so anything that should come out from me will not consider their story in the film as being canonical. None of that useless angst, thank you very much.
> 
> Now, on the matter of titles. All the titles of the chapters (as well as the main story title) are the courtesy of one of my favourite poets, Lord Alfred Tennyson. All bar one: In the Heart of Darkness (a clear reference to Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, which I thought exemplary of the loss of direction of a man and the complete inability to regain touch with reality).
> 
> Most of the titles derive from Tennyson's Ulysses ('I cannot rest from travel', the title of the prologue, 'there lies the port', ' 'T is not too late to seek a newer world', 'Though much is taken, much abides', 'hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will', and 'To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield'), whereas the remaining two ('Sweeter manners, poorer laws' and 'Love is the only gold') are taken respectively from 'In Memoriam' and from Tennyson's play 'Becket' (Act IV).
> 
> The reason why I chose Ulysses as a title is that Tennyson's poem talks about a man's search for his own nature, his struggle to find purpose in life, and his attempts at identifying his goals. I thought this was precisely what I wanted Bertie to be, ever since those first few paragraphs in the prologue. Tennyson's Ulysses is an entreaty to all to not abandon hope and to be the best that they can, and so I felt it apt that his words should follow the curve of Bertie's voyage through life until his marriage with Edith. And even more apt, was the fact that the last title should be the very last line of the poem.
> 
> There's a chance I might be breaking some copyright laws by posting the whole poem for you here, so I'll give you a direct link to a page with the whole poem if you're interested, instead:
> 
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45392/ulysses


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